Feng Shui Is Not For Sissies

This happens every time I move.

Every. Single. Time.

I sit around a half-unpacked place, with boxes all over the floor, eating leftover pizza or some type of fast food delicacy because the refrigerator isn’t stocked yet, and I stress about how this new place doesn’t feel like “home.”

Tony reminded me of that tonight as we were doing the last of the cleaning at our old apartment and I was grumbling about how I’ll miss the place and how it got so much better light than our new house and “wah, wah, wah,” you get the picture.  He looked at me and said, “You hated this place!  In fact, you said the same thing when you moved into this apartment about how it didn’t ‘feel’ right.  And the place before this.”

He might have a point.

I’m a “feeling” kind of gal.  I will be disgusted with a room if it doesn’t have a specific feeling that exudes comfort.  And this house is proving to be difficult because of lighting and angles and lack of corners in certain rooms and dismal bathrooms and an icky-ish kitchen.  I totally have a future in feng shui I think because I might have rearranged our master bedroom half a dozen times.  It’s still not perfect, but we’re getting there.

The baby’s room is my favorite room in the house.  My wonderful father-in-law tackled the horizontal stripes project I had envisioned and it proved to be an 11 hour beast, as the horizontal stripes were hard to keep level around an entire room and the tape kept falling off the wall after he marked the lines.  Pretty much, we owe him dinner.  Lobster or something equally grand, I’d say.

The room gets a ton of light and has a sweet little, white shag carpet.  The crib still needs to be set up, but hopefully he won’t be popping out anytime early so we’ll have some time, as that room has become the room where we temporarily put junk that we just can’t deal with at the moment.  So, basically all my shoes and leftover paint.  Along with a rug.  And some bedding.  Sorry Fox.

I’m just around the corner from 27 weeks and nothing has reminded me of that more than moving.

When we first moved in, I just laughed when people said I should take it easy.  I didn’t laugh anymore after I fell off a window sill while trying to paint the top of a wall.  Tony walked around the corner just as I fell and freaked out.  I’m ok.  Baby’s ok.  But we’re not painting high-up places anymore.  Tony has made damn sure of that as most of his friends have been instructed not to let me near a ladder.

It’s hard slowing down when you just want things to get done, so I’m finding that I’m probably lifting more than I should, breathing way more caustic chemicals from cleaning supplies than is probably recommended and generally living at a much higher stress level than is healthy.  Throw in eating-on-the-go and fewer hours of sleep and you’d start to feel bad for this poor child I’m responsible for.  I’m stressing out over it a little, but a few close people have reminded me that a week of a little extra stress and cleaning supplies doesn’t make me the worst pregnant lady on the planet.  It’s just hard not to worry that I’m doing irreparable damage to this poor little man-of-mine.

I don’t have 27 week photos for you, I’m sorry to say.  The lighting in our room is terrible and the bathroom mirror is so high, I have to stand on my tip-toes just to do my hair.  But hopefully soon.  The belly is starting to get freakishly huge and instead of kicks and punches, I now feel him rolling and flipping.

I’ll also try to get some pictures up when the place starts to come together.  It could be another year, but rest assured, you’ll see this nursery at some point.

 

The Daily Report

We closed on our house Friday night.  Then we drove over there, where I proceeded to freak out about pretty much everything I missed during the first showing.  The second showing.  The home inspection.  And the walk-through.  How did I not notice how dirty the sides of the dishwasher were the first time?  For the love of God, why did I not check the freaking dishwasher?!

Because I was not at level-10, freak-out capacity when I first walked through the house.  I was actually sane, not some batshit crazy, first time homeowner who is peeling contact paper out of her new kitchen cabinets at 10 at night.

You could probably say my stress level is a little high at the moment.

But here’s why.

I am living out of these.  And no sooner will you pack your Flinstones vitamins in a box that you have your husband move to the new place, you will realize you forgot to take your Flinstones vitamin for the day and have a slight internal meltdown that you are not enjoying the delicious generic red flavor of Barney Rubble.

Side note: XBox controller spotted!  (It’s like the Where’s Waldo of the nerdy, gamer world)

Because this first picture doesn’t give you a clear enough view of the nightmare that has become our apartment, let me show you the other lazy picture I took from the couch where my big butt has been planted while stressing out about the rest of the packing that needs to be done.

If we camp out somewhere between the couch and the desk tonight, we might be able to reach summit, or the laundry room in the back, by morning.

I also decided to take the following picture.

Apparently we have our priorities straight around these parts because the XBox is the last thing that will be getting packed, and don’t even suggest that Tony might want to put it in the box or he will stare at you, choking back a disgusted snort that you would even think of such a crazy notion.  ”Woman!  There are still hours in the day that can be spent playing Halo!  Good day to you!”

So naturally, with all the stress and chaos that has been surrounding me, I frequently go to my happy place.  Which just so happens to be an avocado BLT.  Listen.  I don’t judge your happy places.

If this writing “thang” doesn’t work out, I could probably make it in the sandwich industry.  I’m just sayin’.  That’s a pretty damn good-looking sandwich.

And because this post has mainly become an easy-peezy picture book (because I’m tired, so that’s what you get), why not post a few pregnancy-related 26 week bump photos, shall we?

My belly is getting huge and this little boy-part-adorned mini-critter I’ve been hauling around all day is starting to get some-sort of heavy.

We’re moving around here, not cleaning mirrors.  I make no apologies.

Oooh snap!  Things are a-popping.  This week especially has been a “week of growth,” which is code word for “all of a sudden even the UPS guy at work is congratulating you on your exciting news based on his observation of your freakishly large new ab region.”  It still takes me aback when people congratulate me or ask when I’m due without knowing for sure that I’m pregnant and a very small part of me (very small indeed) wants to look at them sideways with a confused look and ask what they’re talking about.  You’re commenting on my beer gut?  Thanks a lot, ya’ jags!

No, I won’t do that to anyone.  I promise.  Not even the UPS guy.

Here’s the attitude-model-glamour pose where Tyra Banks would probably yell at me for not smiling enough with my eyes.

We’re getting down to 14 weeks left and I’m starting to feel like I’m not sure how there will be room for my stomach AND a bladder AND a baby if things get any more cramped.  One needs to go.  And my gut instinct tells me the baby’s probably going to stick around for a little bit.  So.  Bladder it is, then.

We also find we’re calling him all kinds of incredibly ridiculous pet names that he’ll grow to hate us for down the line.  So far he’s Foxy, which is a given and something that is probably making my poor mother cringe as she reads it.  He’s also Foxy Locks, Foxtrot and the Fox-ness Monster.  It’s getting weird, I am aware of this.

On a side note, one of Tony’s friends calls him Squirrel.  Get your woodland creatures straight, man!

Anyway.

It’s getting late and we have quite a bit of painting ahead in our future tomorrow, but I hope to check back in with you folks after this week is up and my one big wish for this week is to not have strangled my poor husband over paint samples.  Warm Khaki Biscuit Buttermilk Pancake or Buttercream Sage Sand Dunebuggy Mermaid?!

Wait.  What aisle do I go down to just find the beige paint?

 

My Teeth Hurt

Because this damn onesie is just too. freaking. sweet.

I die.  From the cuteness.  That is all.

P.S. – I did not lie when I said all the Yankee candles were packed first, as you can see from the boxes in the background.  Priorities, my friends.

P.P.S. – Oooo – and I need to give credit where credit is due.  I found this little number on Etsy – here’s the link: http://www.etsy.com/listing/94846464/f-is-for-fox-american-apparel-onesie

 

Miss Frazzled

I am stressed.

We close on our house 1 week from today.

So far I’ve packed my Yankee candles, a few wind chimes and some random picture frames that keep moving with us from place to place, but always manage to find themselves in the back of the closet.  Anybody else feel guilty getting rid of picture frames?  Just my neuroses?  Ok then.

I also have a box for Fox’s nursery bedding, but it might be cheating a little because it arrived in a box and, well, technically I just didn’t take it out of the box.  But having it sit with the other boxes feels like an accomplishment to me, ok, so just go with it, would ya?

I am seriously debating hiring a maid after all is said and done because for some reason our apartment building managers seem to think we are all a bunch of free labor monkeys as they’ve left us with a full page list of “Things that Must Be Done While We Dangle Your Security Deposit Over Your Head, Suckeeeerrsss!”  One of the priorities?  Clean the ceiling fans.  Seriously?

I mean, I’m not planning to leave this place a mess, but I’d imagine they have some type of cleaning crew that comes in here after we’re gone and might be able to take 5 minutes to get up on a step stool and clean off the damn fans.  But instead this little preggo has to do it and I’m short.  And getting squatter by the second, I must add.

I’ve already made Tony promise to do the oven and my shower.

So maybe who’s the sucker now?

 

 

24 Week Corn Cob

This baby is the size of an ear of corn.  Which is about 11-12 inches, if you’re wondering.  Tony recently watched me quizzically as I grabbed a ruler and held it up to my belly and tried to angle it in all different ways to see how in the sam hill 12 inches could fit in there.  Shaking his head, he finally reminded me that the baby is probably in a fetal position, not stretched out like a board.

I’m so glad I married a brunette, you guys.

Not too much new to report, other than Fox has moved from having sweet little flutters that I’d “ohh” and “ahh” over while rubbing my belly in a maternal way, to conceiving an entire aerobics routine that he hosts once an hour.  3 weeks ago I was blissfully unaware that he would soon be using my uterus as his own personal home gym.  I’m not the YMCA, kid, stop kicking my bladder!

Other than his attempted jail breaks, we’re feeling pretty good around these parts.  I’ve slowed down on the Mexican food obsession and have moved on to a deeply personal relationship with bacon.

Funny thing about bacon, though.

I’ve always enjoyed bacon, like pretty much everyone else with a pulse, but was never a heavy consumer.  In fact, I didn’t especially love it on sandwiches or burgers, but could appreciate it with breakfast if it also meant I had pancakes and eggs and sausage and…damnit, now I’m hungry.  Anyway.  When I first got pregnant I could barely be in the same house if Tony cooked bacon, as my gag reflex knew no better trigger than fatty pig parts cooked in oil.  But all of a sudden I cannot get enough BLT’s in my diet.  Every other night I’m eating a BLT with avocado on toasted wheat bread.  Tony finally had to ask if we could slow it down on the bacon.  I think he’s starting to get chest pain.

Whatever, wimp, suck it up.

Anyhow.

I won’t leave you hanging on the belly pics any longer, as I know you freaks are here for pretty much one thing and one thing only.  To watch me fatten up.  And far be it for me to disappoint…

This first one was taken by Tony who then went MIA, so the rest are self-portraits in the style of annoying Facebook tween profile pics.  Like, OMG, totes lame, I know!

We call this the “artsy” photo as it was too bright behind me.  So now you get to see my pregnant silhouette.  And an XBox controller.  I know you’re staring at the XBox controller.

Here’s my first attempt to take a self-portrait.  I’m still rusty.  And you can tell I’m rusty because professional self-portrait-takers normally clean the dirty clothes off their beds before taking pictures.  And if they’re English-major-professional-self-portrait-takers they also try to hide the full Harry Potter series visible on the bookshelf behind them.  I promise I have postmodern-Indie books lying around this house somewhere…

Here’s a full body shot.  Because I didn’t want you all to worry that I’ve given up on the heels quite yet.

You know what is incredibly embarrassing?  That I’m posting a picture of my incredibly dirty bathroom mirror for all the Internet to see.  Nice, Katie.  Real nice.

This is me trying to soothe my poor bladder.

This is the last one, I swear.  Because how many times can we look at the same picture?  Except if you look closely, you might be able to see a few pieces of bacon in that belly.

 

Oh Yeah And There’s That…

So because everything in my world has been baby fever lately, I’ve kind of neglected to tell you all the other big news.

Tony and I bought a house.

Seriously.  Someone is giving us a loan and turning us out into the world with complete confidence that we’ll a.) pay our mortgage each month, b.) mow our lawns in a timely fashion and c.) know what to do at 3 in the morning if the roof starts leaking.  Or the sump pump backs up.  Or holy shit there’s a spider in the bathroom.  OMG, I hope that last one doesn’t happen!

I probably wouldn’t have given us a loan, either, folks.

But we’ve signed all 534 documents and put in a contingency for our newborn if things fall through, so I think we’re all set to go.

There’s a long drawn out story behind this house, mainly that we fell in love with it.  Made an offer.  Had the offer countered with the original asking price.  (Seriously).  Made another offer.  And another counter with the original asking price.  Decided these people are ridiculous, goodbye.  Had them come back with our second offer.  Wait, what?  Fine, then.

There’s more to the story due to some problems the sellers were having, but it sounds like the kinks have been ironed and we’re all set to move on May 18th.  Which means we probably should start packing and stop looking at each other every night saying “we should probably start packing, duuuurrr…”

The house is perfect for us.  The nursery is planned out.  There are hardwood floors throughout the entire place.  We’re looking past the z-brick in the kitchen and master bedroom and turning a blind eye to the brown, shag carpeting in the basement.  But did I mention the hardwood floors?

What’s perfect is that it’s in great condition, provides a lot of space for us to grow and just…feels right.

So we’re all pumped.  Even baby Fox who is kicking me in the bladder right now from the excitement.  Thank goodness this place has 2 bathrooms.

 

 

The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly

Gratuitous advice and information from yours truly.  Because lately I seem to be getting “gratuitous” advice from just about everyone else because when people see a little pregnant belly, advice just seems to upchuck out of their mouths uncontrollably.  I am not a super freak-a-zoid about advice and most of the time I smile and actually save little tidbits that I think will be useful in my metaphorical back pocket, but after 1 too many quips about “sleeping when the baby sleeps” I start wanting to remind people that I’m not a complete and TOTAL moron.  Only a SMALL moron, ok?  Jeeesus, people!  I mean I figured out how to make this baby, after all.  (Immaculate conception, of course. duh.)

Anyway, as a newly, first time preggo lady, I have learned quite a few things over the last couple of months.  Some of it really great.  Some of it not so great.  Some of it downright ugly and stuff I wouldn’t normally admit, but heck, let’s keep with the pattern and overshare.  So here you are, my people.  Enjoy.

The Good: Watching my husband get on his knees and start Darth-Vader-talking to my belly, saying “Foooox, I am your fatheeeeer.”

The Bad: Feeling a river of acidic fire crawling up your esophagus each and every time you are in a horizontal position.  Tums stock has jumped 5 points since I’ve gotten knocked up.

The Ugly: Do not, I repeat, do NOT surround yourself with funny people.  Because funny people make you laugh.  And laughing during pregnancy, with a bladder that has a little extra weight applied, will have you laughing one minute and then coming to a complete stop with the laughing, while all your friends or coworkers might be giving you a strange look when you cut out mid-laugh.  Oh, we’re definitely not laughing anymore.  Where’s the damn lady’s room?!

The Good: Invest in a belly band.  I haven’t buttoned my pants since late February.  And none of you fools have even noticed.

The Bad: Maternity pants.  I would avoid these all together if my company would just lighten up a little and let me wear some damn yoga pants to work everyday.  But because I don’t foresee that happening in the near future, I am slowly inching my way into these, week by week.  And they suck, in all their elastic-ky-hatedness.

The Ugly: My belly button is starting to look a little crazy.  Want a funny story?  Tony and I have had a long-standing “inside joke” of sorts laugh about my stupid belly button.  It’s always been such a deep belly button that we’ve never been able to see to the bottom of it.  We’d always joke about my insides seeping out somewhere way below and that we always wondered what was at the very bottom.  Well I can tell you now.  And it was a rogue M&M from 1997 that was lodged down there all along.  And a few pennies.  And potato chip crumbs.  And I think we also might have had a glimpse of Nelly, the lochness monster.  As it keeps getting closer to the surface, I’m sure more things will emerge from it.  I’ll keep you posted.

The Good: Having an OB-GYN who has the exact same, terribly-inappropriate sense of humor as I do.  On my last visit he told me I looked fairly healthy and not like I’d been doing too much crack.  Match made in gynecological heaven.

The Bad: Hearing opinions on the name Fox.  Yeah.  We get it.  It’s not your cup of tea.  But I hate your name, too.  And the make of your car.  And I don’t like that stupid purple shirt you’re wearing today either.

The Ugly: Buckle up, pregnant women.  9 months is a long time to go without alcohol.  And the fun-filled nights of debauchery that go along with alcohol.  I know I’m making myself out to be an alcoholic here, but the Captain and I had a pretty intense fling going for awhile.  And now it’s like we don’t even know each other.  He doesn’t even respond to my text messages.

The Good: Having people fawn over you.  I am one of those weird pregnant ladies that does not care if you want to rub up on my belly.  Seriously!  Go in for a pat.  Make a wish while you’re at it, cuz it has some pretty crazy little powers, this buddha belly.  And you better get your rubbing in while I’m still in the 2nd trimester and feeling kind of remotely cute about it, because when I start rounding 3rd I might not be feeling so lovely towards a big-ole-belly.

The Bad: All the limits.  I find having  a sense of humor is key when people start telling me to sit down or stop lifting things.  I like to tell them that I don’t want a puny baby so I’m helping him build up some muscle.  It’s good to toughen them up in utero.

The Ugly: Weight gain.  Oh, it is so, so, SO vain, I know.  But it’s the truth.  No woman likes to watch the scale creep up, especially into unfamiliar territory.  I have to remind myself that it’s healthy.  That I have to gain weight.  But it’s hard not to want to gain it all on S’mores icecream and Coca Cola.  As if pregnancy wasn’t un-fun enough.

Enough with the gratuitous information.  How about a gratuitous belly picture?  I’m 21 weeks below and dressed all fancy-schmancy after a work event down in the city.  Little did I know it would be raining out so don’t mind the gnarly hair, which I finally had to pull back.

 

To My Sweet Baby Boy,

The minute your little heart appeared on the screen and I realized you looked like an actual baby and  not the little gummy-bear-bean I first saw at the 8 week ultrasound, my own heart did a little skip.  Four perfect little chambers, beating at 150 beats per minute.  It sounded like a train chugga-chugging through the room and I just smiled.

The doctor went over all the details of your little body.  The stomach looked good.  The brain looked good.  Check out those fingers spreading, which was a good sign that we needn’t worry too much about any mental disabilities.  I knew right then where a parent’s incredible pride swells from because at that minute I was so proud that you were so healthy.

You were a complete spaz.  You were kicking all over the place and kept flailing your arms up.  The doctor joked that he couldn’t get a clear picture because you kept smacking yourself in the face.  The only pictures we were able to get of your sweet little mug was of two sweet little hands hiding it.  The doctor kept assuring us that with a little bean as active as you were, he’d be sure to have an easy time getting a photo of the important bits, which we were so eager to know.

But time and time again, after we’d poke you and I’d wiggle around a little, you’d stay firm, keeping your legs shut.  Are you sure you aren’t a stubborn Taurus like your father and me?  But finally the doctor clicked a quick picture and looked at us and grinned.  Without announcing he asked us “Do you see what I see?”  That’s when the tears started to flow and I looked over at your dad and he was beaming from ear to ear.  You were definitely a boy.  And my heart did another skip.  From that moment forward we watched you wiggle a little more and refuse to give in and humor us with a little face shot.  So we’re still guessing whose chin you might have and what your nose is shaped like.  But that’s ok.  Because I feel like I know you already.  And you are perfect.

Love,

Your mom

 

How Many Times Can A Girl Say The Word Uterus?

Oh I know, I know, I’ve been a bad little blogger.  How can I get you guys all worked up about the day in’s and day out’s of my uterus and then leave you hanging for a few weeks?  It’s downright mean, I know.

So if you’re on uterus-watch, then this picture should appease all you crazy bump-watchers out there.

Here I am at 19 weeks.

Voila!  We have belly, folks!

I find it so funny to look back at pictures from week 12 and 13 and think about what a freak-a-zoid I was and just how huge I thought my little tum-tum was back then.  And then I look at this picture and realize…whoa.  Where did this gut come from?  I’ve lived with it every single day and I have no idea when it all of a sudden went from week 12 to week 19, a.k.a. me complaining about slightly tight waisted jeans to “oh man, one more button down and next comes the zipper.”

Not in maternity jeans yet, damnit.  I am holding strong in avoiding them at all costs, but it’s starting to reach that point.  Woe is the girl who has to wear pleats and elastic-banded waists.

We find out the sex of the baby on Friday, but of course you already have that marked on your calendars.  Because, duh.  Of course you do.  (My calendar has hearts and squiggly lines all of over it and I had to stop myself from drawing a cute little sperm character on my calendar at work because even I have professional boundaries.  Hard to believe, but it’s true.)  This is all coming from the girl who didn’t want to find out the sex, I know.  But now that we’re embracing it, we’re truly embracing it.  And it’ll be like Christmas morning when I wake up Friday.

So I’ll write again after Friday and let you all know if it’s a Fox or a Marlowe all up in this uterus-joint.

(Didn’t think I’d say uterus again in this blog post, did you?)

Uterus.

 

What’s In a Name?

I think I’ve made you all sweat it out long enough.  And because we’ve already revealed our names to many who reside in the non-internet world (I know! It still exists! Gasp!), I figure…you’ve waited long enough.

Drumroll please.

If our little darling is, well, a little darling diva, she will be named Marlowe.  We don’t have a middle name for her yet, though, as the middle name is up to Tony and, well, Tony has yet to hang the shelves we bought when we first moved into this apartment a year and a half ago.  Basically, he’s a procrastinator, for those of you who like when I get straight to the point and can’t read between the lines.  (Sidenote: If you like brevity, I’m not sure what you’re doing reading my blog.)

Ok.

Baby boy’s name.

This needs a little disclaimer.

It’s…unique (but growing in popularity, believe it or not, which just kills me a little inside).

Anyway.  Our little bouncing baby boy will be Fox.  Fox Benjamin if you’re curious about the middle name.

I’ve found that the name brings on strong connotations from both sides of the fence.  Either you love the name and think it’s pretty bitchin’ or you pretty much hate it and think we’re ruining our child’s future elementary school playground days.  We’ve been accused of thinking we’re celebrities.  And hippies.  I just tell people I hope he’s a special agent for the X-Files.