Almost Time

Well, there have been a lot of developments around these parts. Next month at this time, we'll be reporting some really big news--little love turns three and itty bitty love will be on its way (if not here already!)

This last trimester hasn't been without it's trials, though. Namely, the ruptured achilles tendon on my husband's left foot. He ruptured it on Valentine's Day playing basketball--moments before I said OUT LOUD to a friend, who is also pregnant, "It just occurred to me...our husband's could get really hurt playing this game!"

Fortunately, my mom had made a surprise visit that weekend, so she was able to look after the little one while Pete and I whittled our time away in the ER. He had surgery on February 23 and just got his cast off Monday. He won't be walking for another couple of months, though we're hoping for a "slow limp" in about one and a half.

Needless to say, I've neglected plenty, like this blog, for instance. And sparkling clean floors, which really bugs me since the nesting urge is in full effect. Oh, and all the letter writing and phone calling that I'd planned to do before the baby came.

A good friend suggested we take out an insurance policy with the next pregnancy, since I broke several bones in my hand and wrist with number one and now Pete and his injury with number two. Hmmm...

At any rate, I hope you all are well. I'll try to post some pictures soon of our current state--crutches, pregnant, runny noses and all.

Spring is coming!

Hiney's & Rainbows

The other morning little one told me she had a dream about rainbows.

I asked her if she slid down it (a la..say say oh playmate, come out and play with me, and bring your dolly's three, climb up my apple tree. Slide down my rainbow...)

She informed me that she, in fact, had. With all of her friends.

That is, those who sleep in bed with her: Elmo, Big Bird, Curious George, Bob, JoJo, baby, and Otto.

She made it a point to tell me that Shamu did NOT slide down the rainbow.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because he doesn't have a hiney," she said.

I guess the we only slide on our hiney's rule has taken effect.

Splurge: Big Girl Bed

It's on its way. The big girl bed is on its way. Is she ready for it? Without question. Is her mommy? Not a chance.

I guess that's the conundrum of parenthood: praying for them (and teaching them how) to grow and live into responsible, independent, and loving people...while at the same time wanting them to stay little for just a little longer.

tid bits

We're up to our ears in infection around here...I thought 14 months of breast feeding was supposed to get us off the hook for those.

Still, sleepless nights (and days) and unprovoked fears haven't stopped this little one from exercising her imagination.

Scene: On the phone with her daddy, who is at work

Little One: Daddy, you forgot your belt today.

Daddy: Shoot. How am I going to keep my pants from falling down?

(Mommy's thinking to herself about what Little One might say: tape measure, tape, something obvious in a not-so-obvious way)

Little One: I think you need to find someone else to put in there with you. That will keep them up.

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Hope 2009 is off to a great, sleep-filled start.

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Merry Blessed Christmas

Is it really almost Christmas (as in five hours away?).

Merry Merry Christmas. Hope it's a love-filled day and a heart-filled year.

Fa la la la love, Maureen

It's Happening

Slowly, I am breaking my own rules. Surprisingly, it doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would. See, I use the pregnancy excuse (it's really very handy).

I do realize the slippery slope I'm on. Break one rule, two are right behind. It's like eating cookie dough. If I can resist the tiniest temptation to put butter+sugar+flour+vanilla to tongue, I'm saved. If I give in, even just a little bit, I'm doomed. A taste turns into a spoonful turns into sick-on-the-couch-with-no-relief-in-sight.

I'm doomed.

Why, you ask? Because I actually went to the mall to shop in my sweatpants. Today. And I was neither a) coming from a workout; or b) out of my mind.

And they weren't even cute sweatpants. They were six year old navy drawstring sweatpants that I have worn every night from 7p-10p for the past seven hundred and fifty three days (or thereabouts). In fact (if I'm going to spill it I might as well spill it all) they even have a toothpaste stain on the hem of the bottom right leg. I am reminded of this stain every night when little one says, "Mommy, you forgot to wash your pants again."

Which leads me to another rule: I go long long periods of time between washing the sweatpants that I wear to read to my daughter and unwind in at nighttime. The reason is attributed to the fear that these sweatpants-of-all-sweatpants will not be the same if I wash them. I know you know what I mean. Maybe it's not sweats for you, but it's something. You have (or have had) the same fear, haven't you?

But wearing them out IN PUBLIC takes it to a new level (or is it a new low). Maybe it was the rain, maybe it was the "have I done enough for everyone for Christmas"anxiety, maybe it was the baby growing in my belly. Whatever the excuse, there really is no excuse.

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Music to My Ears, and Some that Makes Tears

Two local radio stations have been playing Christmas music EXCLUSIVELY since about November 18th. If I do the math (which I don't do very well) that adds up to about eight (or is it nine) days before Thanksgiving.

But you know, I didn't even mind.

I like Christmas music and I'm NOT (I mean NOT) worried about gifts and buying this year, so it didn't feel like a ticking bomb to me. We're not spending as much money but we're spending A LOT of time...together. Doing things that Christ and Christmas music and Advent inspire us to do this time of year. Like lighting balsam and cedar scented candles, baking gingerbread boys and girls til they're a little too crisp around the edges, saying extra prayers and dropping in on lonely neighbors, playing in flour (which, apparently, is way more fun to play in than to bake with) and singing way off key.

The other day I switched things up a bit and turned off the radio. I couldn't listen to Elvis' "Blue Christmas" one more time (I think it was on a 22-song repeat) and worse, that song about the little boy (or is it a little girl) whose mom is dying and he wants to buy her a pair of shoes so she can look pretty if she "meets Jesus tonight..." You know the song, I know you do. My husband gags when it comes on and even though it is a bit hokey (alright, a lot hokey) I cannot help but cry EVERY. TIME. I. HEAR. IT. It's a train-wreck song. You know it's going to hurt to look but you just can't bring yourself to look away.

So anyway, I traded up the radio for Christmas CD's while I worked. This was around 1pm.

At about 3pm, I got out my little writing pad, which I use to write about Ava or what's on my mind. Here's the first line:

"I feel a little melancholy this afternoon; I can't pinpoint the source, but I just do."

As I inked the period on the page, it occurred to me.

"Maybe it has something to do with the fact that James Taylor's Christmas CD has been playing on repeat for the last two hours and I never even once realized it."

I immediately ejected James Taylor, inserted Burl Ives, and presto...JOY.

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One more thing about the radio. I listen to it because it's convenient and I like the variety. I have always liked music but never loved it. Until I met my husband, that is. He loves music + I love him = I love music. He's always listening to it (never on the radio), singing it, or playing it and I just wanted to let him know (publicly) how much I admire that about him and how grateful I am that he's shared it with me and instilled it, naturally, in our daughter. I rely on him for a lot of things that he probably thinks I take for granted, but I do notice (and grin) on those dreadful treadmill runs when my iPOD has been updated with all kinds of music to my ears.

Letter. Writing. Campaign.

News Flash: For those of you who don't know, and I do apologize, I am pregnant with Number two. The bundle is slated to arrive mid-latish April, putting me at about 19 weeks, half way there. Okay, on with the post...

Dear Time:

Please slow down. I’m serious. My daughter was just born and now she’s two. And a half. It was just Halloween and now people are asking what I’m making for Thanksgiving. I started thinking about what to make for Thanksgiving and someone asked me if I’d started my Christmas shopping.

This has got to stop. I’m not sure how you’ll do it, but please, just slow down. Just for one day, I beg you.

Signed,

Timed Out

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Dear Daylight Savings Time:

I’m not sure how you’re related to Time (note separate letter, above) but I just wanted to let you know that you’ve really screwed things up for me and my family. It’s been a couple of weeks now and we still can’t seem to figure ourselves out. I’m irritable and waking at odd hours, my kid tells me she’s ready for a nap at noon (which is really 1pm, her old nap time) and I can’t very well send her to bed without lunch, so we struggle through the next hour until 1pm (which is really 2pm) at which point she’s so tired that it takes her another hour to fall asleep, which she does until nearly 5pm because she’s so tired. By 5pm when she wakes it’s nearly dinnertime. She tells me she just ate (which is basically true). By the time dinner is through and the table is cleared it feels like it should be 9pm, but she’s not tired because she just slept three hours and it’s really only 7pm. Even though its dark enough to be midnight.

I just can’t figure you out. When are we actually in “daylight savings time” anyway? When we spring ahead or when we fall back or just always?

I’m sorry to be so feisty, but I’m tired and I’m pregnant.

Signed,

Too tired and cranky to come up with a clever sign-off

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Dear CVS guy:

Listen, I haven’t been in your store in months, maybe even a year. And to be honest, when I do walk in there I start to have heart palpitations as it is. I’m not sure how you could fit one more Whitman’s Sampler Candy box, but you do.

At any rate, when you needed to pass me in the way-overcrowded-aisle (not with people, mind you, with stuff) all you needed to say was, “Excuse me,” and I would’ve happily moved aside.

But you didn’t.

You stood there and grunted and rolled your eyes when I didn’t even know you were there.

Maybe I’m a little more sensitive these days, being pregnant and all, but even if I weren’t pregnant I’d think you were pretty rude to someone who was just minding her own business and preparing to spend money on window candles that probably won’t work anyway.

So there, I feel better now.

Signed,

I'll huff and puff and blow that house down!

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Dear Jesus:

I think we must be doing something right because our little two-year-old darling told me that I should talk to You the other day.

Our toaster wasn’t working right and I said, “Well, that’s a little bit of a problem” because I’d promised her toast and jam with breakfast. She told me that I should talk to You because You listen to us when we have problems and that You are everywhere.

Sigh.

Love,

Maureen

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Dear Husband:

Remember when were dating and first married and agreed that we’d never be like our parents and watch TV in different rooms? Heck, that we wouldn’t even watch it on different couches?

Well, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but we’ve started watching TV on different couches and if you keep up this Battlestar Galactica fixation, we might just end up watching it in different rooms, too.

Is this what happens when you have kids?

Love,

Wife

Ps….I’m pretty sure I have a crush on Chuck, but he kind of reminds me of you, if that makes it okay.

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Dear Private Caller:

I’m not sure who you are or what you want, but please stop calling. At least move your pestering to the after-nap hour. One of these days you’re going to wake my little one and then I’ll really be annoyed.

Signed,

Publicly Pi**ed

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Dear Peanut M&M’s in my cupboard:

I hear your taunts and I’m ignoring you. I am not going to open you, so please stop trying. Please.

Signed,

Stuffed well enough with my own peanut, thank you

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Dear Olivia (of the Olivia series for children, by Ian Falconer):
I like your sass and all, but we have to talk about all this standing on tables and chairs business that you seem to enjoy (and get away with).

To date, my 2 year old is a great rule follower. She knows not to "write on people" and to "sit on her bottom." But when we read your stories and you are doing all of the above, it''s planting a seed that I'm afraid is about to sprout.

So, at least if you're going to do those things, maybe your mom and dad could at least correct you on it. Publicly.

Thanks,

Mama of a fan