Tums have an aftertaste.  I eat so many of them, I actually know this as fact.

If I could fit my feet into normal shoes, I wouldn’t be able to tie them.  I can’t bend over that far.  And my flip-flops, my beloved Rainbows, no longer fit.  The leather straps leave indentations in my skin.  I can only wear Crocs.  I actually had to go out and buy Crocs.

My watch is tight.  My wedding rings are tight.  I’m swollen everywhere.

I always have to pee.  I always had to pee anyway, but now there’s a tiny human banging into my bladder, which makes the I-Have-To-Pee Sensation that much worse and more urgent.

When I get home, it’s a struggle to stay awake.  But when I go to bed, it’s a struggle to roll over and get comfortable, so I’m struggling no matter where I am.  And then I wake up with aching hips and a sore back.

I’m hungry ALL. THE. TIME.

I look like a contortionist when I try to shave my legs.

I got stretch marks.  Faint ones, and only a few, but they’re there.  They’ll always be there.  Even if my body goes back to the way it was – which is not likely – I will always have stretch marks.

I have new freckles.  A lot of new freckles.  Yes, they’re from pregnancy.  My doctor says so.  It’s all part of the new you, she says.

I’m ready for this pregnancy to be over…

But I’m not ready for the baby to be here.

I want to go back to early September.  I want a week to take scalding baths.  To drink a big goblet of wine.  To wear stilettos.  To stay up late.  To run.  To paint my toenails.  To wear pants with buttons.  To go whitewater rafting.  To sleep on my stomach.  To sleep on my back.  To not have half of my brain focused on a baby I’ve never met at all times.

And then I’ll return to my 8th month of pregnancy.  I’ll continue to prepare for my baby.  I’ll wash her clothes.  I’ll suck-up the aches and pains, the hunger and exhaustion.  I’ll be the best mama-to-be possible.


In January it was decided that my baby shower would be held at my house.  Because of its open floor plan, it made sense.  It’s a great party-having house.

It also made sense to make the shower the goal date for the completion of the nursery.  There will be upwards of 20 women in my house, and I’m sure they’d like to see where this baby they’re celebrating is going to be sleeping (please, God, let her sleep…).

In January, I was like, “Hey, beloved husband of mine.  We need to have the nursery done before the shower at the end of April.”  And that beloved husband of mine said, “Sure, no problem, wife.  It will be done.  IT WILL BE DONE.”

It is not done.

My mother arrives at 9:30 tomorrow morning, and it is not done.  There are curtains to be hung.  Touch-up painting to be finished.  Decorations to be placed.  And the Taj Mahal light has to be installed.

My husband has virtually no experience installing any lights at all, let alone a Taj Mahal light.  Hell, we don’t even know what kind of light bulb to get.

Now, let me clarify: the nursery is plain and boring (and so, so pretty).  We don’t have many decorations.  Everything is pale and pastel.  So we (and by we I don’t mean me and Allan.  I mean me, my mom and Jenn) decided to hang a statement light.  A very, very girly, slightly ridiculous, statement light.

It’s still in a box on the floor (of the unfinished nursery).

I’m a really nice wife.  I make dinner for Allan.  I pack his lunches.  I go to his soccer games (and sometimes even pretend to watch the action on the field).  I clean his bathroom vanity and I even go into the mountains when I’m really a beach kind of girl.  But I recently told him that if the nursery isn’t finished on time, I’m going to cut his balls off.

It’s not like he had no notice, no time to plan.  Because he did.  He had more than three months.  And in case you’re wondering why all of the responsibility is falling on his broad shoulders, it’s because he wants it that way!  He kicks me out of the room.  He tells me it’s not big enough for both of us to be in there, so get out!  Get out!  I want to do this by myself!

Fail.


Well, hello long lost blog.  Actually, the blog wasn’t lost.  I’ve known where it was this whole time.  I’ve just been unable to update it.

We’re slammed at work.  I should actually capitalize that to give you a better idea of how crazy things are.  We’re Slammed at work.  With a capital S.  When I drive home, I’m tired.  When I get home, I’m even more tired.

It’s all good.  Last spring we were Slammed, and the spring before that, we were Slammed, too.  I’m grateful to have worked in a place long enough to be able to recognize patterns, as pathetic as that is.

So, I know things will slow down in the summertime.  Then they’ll be crazy in the fall, taper off over the winter, and then we’ll be back at a new spring, during which we’ll be Slammed.  With a capital S.

I won’t actually be in the office this summer to experience the mellowness of my company.  I’ll be on my – as one friend puts it – coveted summer maternity leave.

I’m taking three months off.  Three months, just me and my girl (and my dog).  I might go crazy.  I might love every minute of it.  I really can’t say quite yet, but I’m glad I’ll get that time.  Not everyone is lucky enough to take that much time off when they have a baby.

The US has AWFUL maternity leave.  Just about the worst in the industrialized world.  No joke.  And my company – as wonderful as it is – doesn’t do a whole lot.  I have to take two weeks of my own vacation, then I get – wait for it! – FOUR weeks at 60% of my salary.

Taking 12 weeks off means I will only get paid for 1/2 of the time.  Wheee!

This is random, but there’s a series of Dodge commercials right now, and I’m crazy about the music.  But I figured it was a Dodge commercial, so it was probably composed just for them.  Then I heard it on a commercial for The Great Gatsby and realized that it must NOT be a custom Dodge creation!  It must be a REAL SONG!

And it is!

And I found it!

My husband is a really good man.  A few times a year, he drives to Winston-Salem and helps his grandparents at their house.  He chops trees, splits fire wood, cleans gutters and fireplaces, removes paint, mows grass, etc…  They have 20+ acres and a really big house, so it’s a lot of work, but he does it all without complaint.  He actually looks forward to it.

But that’s where he is – he’s gone for the day, which means I’m cleaning OUR house today.  Because, as good a man as he truly is, he’s ‘allergic’ to cleaning supplies.  Hmmmm….



Ok, about a month or so ago I tweeted that spring was finally springing in North Carolina.  On that day, it was something like 70 degrees and the five-day forecast showed nothing except temperatures in the 60’s.

All of that changed, of course.  There were no temperatures in the 60’s.  Well, there was one this weekend, but otherwise, there have been none.

And go ahead, think I’m exaggerating – but it was reported that this March was the 6th coldest in recorded history.  The average temperature in Raleigh in March is 63 deg.  I think we maybe hit that three times.

The average temperature in Raleigh in April is 72.  We’re four days in, and today’s high is 45.  WTF.

Sigh.

But, anyway.

In other jarring news, there’s furniture in the nursery.  A crib and two dressers.  I don’t know how they got there.  On Tuesday, Allan and I toured the birth center.  And on Sunday, we’ll be attending birthing class.

I’m sure this is going to sound weird, but I’m still in denial about this whole pregnancy thing.  My belly is really big.  I waddle.  I feel her doing her little fetal dances beneath my skin all day long.  But I still think this isn’t happening.

When they put her in my arms, I very well may pass out.

UPDATE: It’s sleeting.  Sleeeeeeting!