May 2012

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.


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.

Moving boxes

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.

Avocado BLTIf 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.

26 Week Pregnant Belly

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

26 Week Pregnant BellyOooh 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.

26 Week Pregnant BellyHere’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!


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?

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:

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?


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.


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.