Thursday, May 28, 2009

48 hours

or, how functional communication consists of the three-word phrase, "I don't know..."

I'd type more, but it takes a long time to type while holding a sweet, sleeping, three-day old newborn. This message is just a teaser. :-)

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Poor sweetie

My poor sweet cheeks is having tension issues. He was all tense and stressy during track season (middle school girls track...didn't know that was stress inducing) a few weeks ago. And now, he's all short of breath and tight chested again. He's cute and being all fatherly hormonal.

About 1/2 an hour after we went to bed last night, our cat woke me up with her pitiful cries, (for some reason, I always think that Ben is semi-awake like I am) and I, of course, thought that Ben should be the one to shut the bedroom door so that I wouldn't have to heave myself out of bed. The conversation went approximately like this:

me: "Ben, I think that you should shut the door."

Ben: "Is it time to go??"

me (groggily, laughingly, bemusedly): "No."

Ben...1/2 asleep and moving quicker than he ever does when I ask him to get up and do something got up and shut the door. Good boy. Sometimes it's more arduous convincing him that it's his turn to get up.

Now, tonight, he's lamenting his tension issues again. He hasn't been sleeping as well overall. He's all rushing trying to get things at a point where his grading is caught up and his finals are done and printed out. It's just a busy time of the year at school getting everything done in the last few days anyway. I think that he's taking this part of the pregnancy harder than I am! I only have to deal with crampy muscles and tired feet. My finals have been given and graded. In fact, if I don't go into labor like we both really think that I just might this weekend, then I really won't have *anything* to do this week. I don't even know what I'm teaching for sure next year, so I can't get a head start on figuring that out. I could clean a little...yuck.

Maybe I should give the poor guy a head rub. Maybe he should give me a foot rub like he promised last night. But that sounds harsh...he does deserve some relaxing, too. Poor guy has been working super hard all semester. We/I hear all the time "Oh, you must be so ready!" Not really. We're tired. We could really use just a couple of days before the stork visits. It may be a bit uncomfortable for me at night right now, but she's still calm and compact and easy to take out for ice cream. We just kind of like that about her staying where she's supposed to be. In the meantime, and in lieu of a head rub, my boy will get some hugs. He's a keeper.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Visions of grandeur

When we bought our house, I was quite excited to get out and plant a few plants and have pretty flowers and bushes and maybe a little garden somewhere. And that summer passed with little more than grumpy weed pulling. I hate weed pulling, and they grow so darn quickly.

The next summer came and we bought a couple of plants, pulled some ugly bushes, and the weeds grew some more. I overwatered and underwatered as I figured out how to water. It seems that it's harder than I thought. I grew up with a true gardener mom and have helped her water her menagerie of plants in her greenhouse and outside. I've helped her garden. Surely, I know some things. But the weeds still grew and the plants were mediocre at best and no gumption was gathered to pull more ugly bushes. And it costs money. I'm cheap enough that my visions of grandeur usually satisfy me, even though I sigh often when I come home and see my denuded looking house, so spindly and pitiful looking compared to the lushness of houses around us.

Then the next summer came and Ben and I planned out and produced a raised bed garden. It turned into a riot of vines and tendrils and fruit and pitiful veggies, but it was still fun to piddle in nonetheless. My whopping red pepper was something to behold. It was the size of a head of garlic. Pitiful. And the general scourge of weeds continued. I quickly realized that the nice neat border around the fence that so attracted me and looked so neat and clean and easy to take care of when we bought the house took about a week to revert back to a jungle-ish state. Apparantly, green thumb that I am, I did not realize at the time that you have to spray weed killer like crazy to keep it that way. Dumping chemicals into the soil just because you're too lazy to pull weeds is something that I don't like. So, I tried the tactic of just planting wildflowers in the space last summer to negate the weed-age. Instead, the weeds just grew in between the wildflowers, and all became even more garishly jungle-like and basically ugly.
This summer, the weeds are already rampant. We have 3 decorative thistles, mega thistles really, growing right beside our cement slab of a patio. I finally got some flowers potted after having them sitting in their sad little pots on my porch for a couple of weeks. My calla lillies aren't coming up (???), only 1 canna bulb sprouted (but it's going strong!), my hydrangeas are kind there but seem to be stuntedly not growing, and my raised bed is again quickly turning into a riotous mess. Alas the mint that I so excitedly planted 2 summers ago. It is villainous indeed. But, the irises are being fruitful and multiplying and purpling my world beautifully right now (I love them...they require no work!), my new lilac bushes are doing quite well, and my hibiscus is courageously returning for another year, even though it seems to be smaller and smaller each year.
My visions may be grandeur-ous, but my reality is only half-so. Mostly because the weeds are growing and no one is pulling them. I hear people (i.e. women...I still don't know too many guys who partake quite liberally in the cleaning of the dwelling when married, though Ben is pretty good, I admit) say how they actually enjoy cleaning. I can't fathom such an outrageous idea. Such is also my state of mind when I hear of people (again...women) who enjoy pulling weeds. Why? What mental complex do you have that you enjoy crouching, pulling, hacking, lugging, sweating, and digging at stickery thistles and pesky stalks of whatever grows in between the slats of my fence? How can this be therapeutic in any way? There are maybe 3 days a summer where the conditions are just right and the stars have alligned just so when pulling weeds is okay, but never really enjoyable.
At least with weeds in my backyard, I can close the fence door and my blinds so that no one will be looking at the messiness. Unfortunately, cleaning is another bugaboo that I have not yet learned to enjoy and one which I cannot so easily shut out. My mom would be appalled if she knew how little I clean like she does, a real house purging. It's a good thing that she doesn't live close enough to know, and it's also a good thing that people do come and visit us once in a while; that does give me some incentive. Right now, the inside of my house is as much of a grubby mess as the outside. Any takers who are truly mental and enjoy weeding, gardening, pulling bushes, and/or cleaning houses? I'll feed you copious amounts of chocolate...

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Crocs (again) and baby needs

I got new Crocs! I love them. I adore them. I rave about them. I think that everyone should own at least 3 pairs...though I now own 2. It might take me another 2 years to get another pair. They're not exactly a necessity. But then again, I manage to have no qualms about buying a more-than-enough supply of good, crunchy, dark chocolate. I love that too...but that, perhaps, is another blog.

My new pair is pink, and since my little bean has already has a pair of dark pink pseudo-crocs, we can start dressing alike! They're not exactly the same shade, but who's going to quibble? Cotton candy vs. bubble gum.

We're also at the point in the gestational period where we really just have to go out and buy a few essentials for the beginning of this production. Alas, no car seat and/or base at my Target. I told my mom, and she, genius that she is, said..."Can't you buy car seats somewhere other than Target?" Oh, right. Duh. Genius that I am. But, we now have hangers for clothes, waterproof pads for mattresses, sheets, and a diaper bucket/pail. All we need is a nightlight and a lamp and we're a-okay on our way.

I feel precocious. Anyone want to play guess-what-we're-naming-little-bean? The first letter is in the first half of the alphabet. And, bonus points, if you come up with a rockin' idea for a name and it has a good story/meaning behind it, you might win the jackpot and have it become the middle name. The selection has yet to be made for that one. Methinks we should soon. Currently, the biggest debate is where to keep the diapers. We can't keep them on the shelf under the changing table because Leo is such a little goober and likes to lick plastic. Wierd and eww.

I suddenly realized last weekend, and seriously, this was just a true lightbulb moment, that we don't have to have everything needed for the first year of little bean's life. Really. I will be able to leave the house at some point and go get some bigger onesies. Ben does know how to operate a credit card should we run out of baby shampoo. I guess I'm just a stockpiler. And a worrier. I like to worry about everything that isn't ready...aaahh. That was said in a mock tone of utter weepiness. Maybe it doesn't help that I'm getting asked a lot now, "Do you have the nursery all ready??" But then again, I have no artistic talents. I'm too cheap, especially right now when faced with no paycheck coming shortly, to go all lavish. Our time has been at a serious minimum, especially for the last month. And, is she really going to care? No. I really wish that I do have some all cute little nursery, but priorities. I'm okay with it. We'll make up for it, maybe, when she's a little older.

Let it be known...I'm so grateful that I'm having a girl for many reasons. One of which is that I have some good contacts who have little girls themselves who are no longer little and who are no longer in the baby business and so no longer have need of little girl clothes. We have tons! And they're waaay cute. Cuter than boy's clothes, I think. I even had a former student who has a little one-year old bring me two huge diaper boxes full of clothes. When your clothing is so tiny, it's easy to fit a lot in a diaper box! I expected to get some hand-me-downs, but the generosity and graciousness of everyone has been outstanding, so appreciated!, and generally gives me warm and fuzzy giggles in my belly. This is why I shouldn't worry.

I'm still trying to figure out how to convince the hospital to subscribe to the MLB extra innings tv programming so that I can watch my Braves while who-he-who-he-who-he-who-he-whooooo breathing.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Mini Coopers stalk me

I absolutely adore Mini Coopers, albeit from a distance as I cannot actually afford one. And, they're not so practical for us right now. Sometimes being practical isn't really any fun. I bet I could afford one if I tried, but that whole 2-door and tiny trunk issue is an overwhelming negative for a family car.

My former principal used to drive a Mini Cooper and remembers my love of them, apparantly. She teases me about my adoration of them occassionally. But really, I'm convinced that they stalk me and therefore taunt me in their stalkage.

Case in point--a week ago, Ben and I were up in N Manchester for the day on Sunday. I drove each way so that Ben could do homework. I kept a running tally over the course of the journey and realized that I saw 7 or 8 different Minis smiling at me, winking at me, driving flirtatiously close to me. At the time, I laughed about it. But then...the next day and the next day and the next day, they're THERE. Turning corners with the allure of a silver bumper flashing in the sun. Idling at stoplights with precocious playfulness. Gunning their engines with a European flair.

I walked to my car on Wednesday night after my last Ball State class was over and mockery of all mockeries...a seductive little piece of manual transmission cuteness had shimmied into the parking space directly beside me. On the driver's side. Cuddling up close to my suddenly bulky SUV. I felt a bit badly for my cute little Mountaineer; it's doomed to forever be in the shadows of the starlet that is the Mini Cooper. It felt just like I do when I'm around my adorable 5', size-maybe-2, what does cellulite mean? friends. It's the average kid who just realized how average they are after standing beside the perfectly proportioned kid who we all envy even though we know that it's not just about looks.

Just once, I want to test drive a Mini Cooper. Just once, I want to feel some modicum of power over the little tiger that never ceases to stalk me...preferably a pewter one.