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.

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