August on My Mind
This Mother’s Day I am being hurdled through a wave of emotions. I am overwhelmed by so much — just as we all are. I am especially overcome, however, with the seemingly accelerated on-coming of August.
August, Sarah? Really? Yeah. Really.
August, because my oldest will start “big boy” school.
August, because he’ll be four.
August, because that is his biggest step towards independence.
August, because he’ll need me less and less.
August, because we’ll be celebrating a new life in Connor.
August, because as one child lets loose, another will cling.
August, because my two greatest blessings and challenges will be on my heart and mind endlessly – as if they’re not already.
August will be the closing and beginning of chapters.
Any other time the days would roll by as slow as molasses. But now? They hurdle through time at suffocating speeds.
I say all of this as if it were awful. Honestly, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t excited. I most certainly am. These “chapters” — they are phenomenal advancements in my life. Truly beautiful little lights that I swore I’d never possess; amazing adventures that I will get to watch unfold. And now, here I sit, captivated. Taken by all the good that has swept me up in nearly four years. Frustrated — and yet, smitten with my life.
And it is still so overwhelming. Such a curious thing. Yet, I know as bewildering as it all seems now… come the fall it will just be a vivid memory. Bittersweet in it’s very essence.
I am ready to have both of my boys in my arms — regardless of time’s terrifying rapidity. Ready to see the only two little souls that have shared my heartbeat. And, yes, ready for my August time fears to dissipate. Ready to see the three loves in my life — all at once — that let me know this life is worth living and giving.
This Mother’s Day I am overcome with a medley of feelings, yes. Both satisfying and excruciating. But I have been given a life I have never deserved because of the lives I, too, have given. And, truly, I am blessed to feel this way. I feel these things, all of these things, because I am a momma. And there is nothing in this world I’d take to replace its intensity.
Nightmares, Insomnia, and Howling Cats — Oh My!
Ohhhh, Lord. Lately, our house has been lovingly irritatingly deemed, “land of the Walking Dead.” No, we’re not hosting a “hug your favorite zombie,” event. Gabe has, for quite some time now, had some pretty intense nightmares (involving favorite cartoon characters, no less), and I have been suffering from a severe case of pregnancy-induced insomnia. Also, we have a tomcat that pretty much calls our side yard “home” and howls… bellows… hell. He’s just loud as shit until ungodly hours of the night. Our cat “found” him and the two correspond in nerve-wrenching cat speak until we have enough and put her out of our room (yay for simple solutions!). At the risk of angering anyone from PETA, I’m about ready to put the other cat out of our his misery. Because seriously… clam up.
But my boy. It’s pitiful, really. He’ll get up between 11:30 and 2 and just stand in the hall, audibly upset. Sometimes we find him on the couch, and occasionally he’ll come get one, or both of us, up. Until recently, we couldn’t put our finger on what was giving him these nightmares. We’re pretty careful about what we watch in front of him and he doesn’t watch anything that would give him night terrors.
Or so we thought.
Finally, a few weeks ago, he clued us in that the “ghosts” in his room –ready for this??– are Scooby Doo ghosts. Hold on, say whaaa? I’ve let him watch the old Scooby Doo’s for a while now. I loved them when I was a kid and, even though there’s no “value” to the cartoon outside of sheer entertainment, I thought it would be something okay for him. Something he’d enjoy. Because, really, what little guy doesn’t adore that speech-impaired dog? But, nevertheless, we cut out Scoob. And still the nightmares continued.
One night while we were still up he came to get Ev to remove the ghost. So, in they marched. Equipped with a spray bottle of water, Evan and Gabe hollered, “Get outta here, ghost!” It seemed to work for a few nights, but to no avail, picked right back up. Once again, Evan went in to calm Gabe down and it must have dawned on him the problem (thank God, ’cause it never would have occurred to me): the “ghost” could be the white fort Gabe had in the corner of his room. So down it came.
And voilà! Ghost-be-gone. Gabe has been nightmare free for a week now. Thank GOD. At least someone in the house is sleeping. And, to be honest, hearing a the faint noise of a child crying at 2am? That’s pretty frightening in and of itself. Now if we could just solve, “The Mystery of the Sleepless Mommy.” Maybe my insomnia is just bracing me for sleepless nights when Connor arrives? Good lookin’ out, self. Good lookin’ out.
And to all you other momma’s out there: Happy Mother’s Day!
American Morality: The Shit Has Finally Hit the Fan
I really must make it a point to stop reading MSN’s front page — or paying attention to anything “news-worthy” from any media at all, for that matter. I’m sure you’ve heard about the mass-stabbing at a Texas school that took place today. Soon, we’ll also hear about the outlawing of knives. Won’t be long, and another jackass, trying to make a statement, will violate others in a mass slingshotting episode. And again, there will be an outlawing. I’m not sure if the “gentleman” that so boldly stabbed what I last heard as fourteen people was trying to make a political gesture or if he was freaking about mid-terms and simply cracked. There again, I don’t care what his reason was. Whether it be point proving or what-have-you, the media, of course, jumped right on it. Now our fearless leader, too, will jump right on it. In no time at all we will have a mass banning of something else because another genius saw fit to ruin basic defense tools for everyone else.
To this individual, I say congratulations and piss off.
It will never cease to amaze me the things that are put under ban. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not a super gun or weapons enthusiast. They scare me to death, to be honest. BUT. I am in no way, shape, or form against the owning of guns for simple home defense and other recreational, valid use. Guns, among other weapons, fall into the wrong hands every day. They have for decades. And just like every other weapon known to man since the beginning of man, guns have been destructive. BUT. They have also proved to be good, useful tools. Do you really think that guns in the hands of certain government officials are being used wisely? Or with merit? No, sir! And back to knives. Again, because I am one gigantic pansy-girl, knives freak me out too. Do I feel knives should be banned? Um, no. I am a young mother to what will soon be two small boys. As hopeful as I am that I will never have to defend us in our home or on the streets, it is a disturbing “if” that one day I might have to. I hate to tell you, but if my only defense is my hands and feet, we’re done for. It is a basic human right to protect one’s self and his or her loved ones. It is a basic human privilege and right to bear arms. I should be able to, if I feel threatened, protect my family the way I see fit. If I am being come at forcefully and violently, you better believe that I want a gun or other defense mechanism at my disposal. Will I shoot or throw to kill? Honestly, probably not. I have terrible aim and would more likely make them dance than do them damage. But they would sure as hell get the idea that I will not be messed with – nor will my little ones.
The government on the larger spectrum has not yet stepped in and given its infinite thoughts of wisdom on the events at hand today. For that I am glad, but am waiting for it. We are watching our own world fall apart. Our overall “virtues” have clogged the figurative Morality Toilet and we are currently waist-deep in its mess. Frankly, I’m sick of it. American politics and “ethics” reek of bullshit. We are as rearwards a country as we could possibly be. We bury our heads in the sand when the government says, “bury,” and also when being accused of being “politically incorrect.” Our children fall victim to violence in schools, and instead of offering defense we point fingers and remove defense. Our families become prey to random violence on the street – and instead of offering shelter and a stronghold, we offer up words of disdain and judgment. I am tired of the fight. I’ve long since grown weary of the argument. So go ahead. Remove weapons from the hands of innocence. Take away armament from the lives of just. Just know that you’re not taking away killing sprees; instead, you’re adding to them. Do you really think the wrong and immoral will cease in acts of cold-blooded hatred just because the majority becomes unguarded? Reverse psychology, in this instance, becomes null and void, and we as a people become just as guilty as the wrong-doers themselves. Why? Because we are allowing doom to take over. We are stepping aside and becoming the beaten down dog that our Master would have us be. We are succumbing to our end.
On a different topic, but same level of violence and hate, people such as this are allowed to murder the undeniably innocent; the small ones who have not yet taken in our polluted air to be called anything but blameless. We give “walking rights” to those of us who murder clinically or otherwise due to, “acts of insanity,” or, “lack of proof.” We are far more concerned with celebrity wrongful death and demise than we are the destruction and devastation of our children, our homes, and our overall well-being. I have written of these things before, and I will continue to until my fingers lose their agility. I will continue to speak of it until these lungs cease to have breath within them. America, you are sorely backwards. In this age that we’ve been granted such great potential of prosperity and justice, we instead turn to desolation and unethicalness. My heart aches for what will be. My heart longs to keep my own little ones safe from your grasp. Your day is coming, Land of the Free. Our New World will crumble beneath our feet if you continue to allow the bane of earthly existence to let loose its havoc. I sincerely hope that your “washing of hands” removes any trace of guilt from your hearts as it has quite obviously removed any sense from your minds.
Mutual Weirdness
I’m just full of news lately, y’all. Evan and I are GETTING MARRIED! And I am pretty late on clue-ing you in. He proposed on Good Friday, which he said I’m officially allowed to call “Great Friday” (har har) and very nearly sent me into a state of shock… of both the sugar and heart-attack varieties. He came home with two Easter baskets — one for me and one for Gabe. While Gabe was distracted with, “OMIGOSH! MOM! CHOCOLATE!”, Ev kept my attention with a few goodies of my own. He either kind of likes me or really hates me, because in the basket was my single most favorite Easter candy ever (Robin’s Eggs) and a Storm Trooper “Easter bunny” (don’t judge). In addition to the sugar-y goodness was a single pink egg. He said it was a special egg and had me open it. At first all I saw was Laffy Taffy. And then I picked it up.. and there it was. I was thrown for a mile, so at first it didn’t occur to me that he was proposing. My response? “Oh! That’s pretty!” God love him, he must have realized that I was confused, and so because I am a few bricks short of a house, he asked. I accepted in truest Sarah-response, “You jerk! Of course!” I am such an adult, I know. But I can honestly say there’s no one else around that I’d rather fall asleep on during movies. I’ve finally met my mutually weird counterpart, and now he’s stuck with me.
The rest of our Easter “break” was just as nice, although relatively busy and not at all break-ish. We had our families out for lunch and enjoyed our Sunday afternoon complete with more Easter bunny festivities. Connor is getting bigger and stronger, as is evident with his kicking, and Gabe is doing so well with his potty training. I’m so proud of my boy! I think we’re rounding a big corner. I took him to Target the other night and let him pick out his own “big boys,” and now he is even more excited to keep those undies in tip-top shape. He’s growing up, y’all. And as bittersweet (and long over-due) as it is, I’m ECSTATIC. And just as soon as it’s ended, it’ll pick right back up with munchkin number two. Sigh. Ah, well. It is what it is.
I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned it, but in case I haven’t, we have so much going on in the next few months. And as nerve-wracking everything is and will be, I’m excited to move on. Gabe starts PRE-K in four months, which will be a big transition for him. Who am I kidding? That’s a big thing for me, too. Around that time, Connor will make his grand entrance — another huge progression for the fam. That’s an awful lot happening already between a (newly) four-year-old pre-k’er and a newborn. Add to that the start for finding a house to buy — not rent. We have roughly nine months to make that magic happen. Somewhere between, we get married. Whew. I’m tired just thinking about it. But it’s beyond worth it. Even though I know there will be some speed bumps along the way, I am confident that we’ll make it all work. I’m also relatively confident that Evan and I will be needing a vat of Red Bull by the time this is all said and done. And with that I say, “Bring it on!”
Drumroll, Please…..
…it’s a BOY! We are the proud and expectant parents of another little guy. I actually wrote about this last Thursday thinking it was a girl. We had been told it was a girl last Monday, but I had another appointment on Thursday which debunked that chromosome fib. A shocking sonogram actually showed Thursday that… well, you know what it showed. It’s probably for the best; Evan handled the news well, considering, but I’m pretty sure we’d have been any gunmaker’s best friends if you catch my drift. Between Evan and Gabe that would have been one well-protected little lady.
Anyway, it’s a boy and we are all very excited. Evan’s excited for the obvious. I’m pretty much just thrilled that there is only one baby in the oven and that it seems to be coming along rather nicely. Gabe doesn’t know what’s going on, which of course makes him positively giddy — although he does like seeing little brother in mommy’s belly. So, until we hear any different, our little one (or Connor Grey) will be here in four short months. Which is crazy ridiculous. I have exploded, although thankfully only in the belly region. I’ve gained a total of ten pounds (whoopee!) and am feeling fantastic. By this time with Gabe I had already packed on a whopping thirty-five (yep. thirty-five) pounds. So help me Jesus, I’ll not do that again. Daddy is fine and much less red-faced now that he knows he can stop looking on Amazon and eBay for chastity belts (I only wish I were joking) and Gabe is very nearly potty trained! Thank God. I totaled up just how much money I would be spending on diapers and Pull-Up’s the other day and very nearly fell out. Seriously, I couldn’t even afford to give my checking account a proper funeral.
Hopefully soon Mr. Gabe will be fully potty-trained and I’ll have a brief reprieve of diaper-buying. He’s pretty excited to be wearing big-boy underpants, and we’re making a huge (probably too big) deal out of it. But I have no shame and would walk around with tighty whities on my head if I thought it would get the point across. No lie. I’d even wear them bad boys to work, dude. Desperate times, desperate measures — don’t judge.
Right now we’re getting ready for the weekend. We’re having Easter dinner at the house with my parents and brother and Evan’s dad & step-mom, Rita. I’m pretty stoked for it since this is the first time we’ve ever had both sets of family over for anything. The apartment was just tiny… hell, there was barely enough room there for the three of us. I’m glad that we’re in a place where we can have company over and not have to worry about what our neighbors are going to say. You know. Since we’re no longer inches from their living area. So we’re taking advantage of our added space and will be bar-b-que’n and whatnot. I have some family coming in from out-of-state that we’ll be seeing, and I’m pretty excited about that. They haven’t seen Gabe since he was very small, and now that I’m expecting my second I’d say it’s well past time.
If I’m not back before Sunday, Happy Easter. Fingers crossed for us on the potty training spectrum.
Playing Favorites
Ahhhh, confessional posts. I am about 4.5 months pregnant (no, that’s not the confessional bit) and a sea of dumb emotions have begun to crash in. I’m pretty much all over the radar on this one, guys. I’m excited and nervous.. and happy and terrified.. and pumped and exhausted. And frankly? I’m pretty much just ready for August to get here. I mean, damnit. Move, August! Move!
Those of you who know me personally (and have laughed at my current situation) know that, if the due date is spot on, Gabe will be exactly four years and a day older than the baby. I know… really should have timed that better. And we would have… had it not been a complete accident. Sigh. At any rate, August just got a lot more costly and a helluva lot more busy. And as much time as I have left to prepare, I feel like the clock is winding down pretty quickly. I mean, it seems not all that long ago that I let everybody and their momma know that “We’re expecting!”. Four and a half months of not that long ago. I just don’t know what happened. I went from not looking pregnant at all to, holy shit… who blew up Sarah?! And I am FREAKING OUT, y’all. Fuh-reaking out. I have valid reasons… I promise.
Gabe will only be four. Granted, that’s thirty-eight months longer than was placed between my younger brother and myself, but still. Gabe has largely been by himself for three and a half years. I think he’ll be an excellent big brother — don’t get me wrong. But I feel so… weird. Most momma’s, if not all of them, who have multiple children have probably felt conflicted about the “favorites game”. Y’all know what I’m talking about. The new baby is, naturally, given more attention because… well, it’s pretty much a lost cause until he or she can move about without much assistance. And even then, they’re on lock down for a while. Every move is watched, leaving older kids to fend for themselves mostly. Which, most bigger kids can do quite well. Generally speaking. But the older kid, unless he or she is a total oddball, feels left out and unwanted for a spell.
I am so worried that Gabe will feel unwanted or unloved for a while… and that is killing me. Evan and I both are trying to remember to refer to Peanut as “our” baby.. as in everyone’s. Because, in reality, it will be. Mine, Evan’s, and Gabe’s. And while Gabe is excited now, and he kisses my tummy every morning and hugs it tight every night… I’m afraid once the reality of a little bitty thing being a.. well, a thing.. Gabe might get scared. And think he’s being replaced? I don’t know. I’m sure I’m giving too much credit for an almost four-year old’s mental process. But little ones are smart. And they are super insecure right about now. And Gabe…. well. Gabe is very smart. And stubborn. And already pretty territorial and protective. And I’m terrified. I’m equally terrified that my youngest will feel the same way. That he or she will watch big brother do things that they cannot yet do. Or whatever the case may be that could be cause for potential “favoritism.” Why do kids have to be such a pain in the ass?!
Someone who shall remain nameless asked me the other day if I was worried about playing favorites… or rather, being accused of playing favorites. I tried to be as cool as possible and answered with a (semi)firm, “No. Favorites isn’t a game we’ll be playing.” And I was serious. And I am serious. But although I know that, “So-and-so is your favorite and that’s not fair!”, is a cross every momma on the planet has to bear… it freaks me out. Because I was an insecure kid. And so were my other siblings. And it wasn’t so long ago that I was putting my own mother through that bullshit (I do apologize for that, by the way. Now, if you could kindly lift that curse…). Someone, and I forget who, but someone explained once that no child is a favorite, but within them lies certain attributes and traits that parents relate to or like a bit better. And that it doesn’t make them bad parents… only human. I think I grasped hold of that wisdom pretty well, considering.
Gabe is and was my first-born and my first little love. Up until this point he was the only little body that knew my heartbeat from inside-out. I carried him without knowing his face for nine months of my life. I carry him still and will carry him until he needs me no more. Unbeknownst to him, he pulled me through postpartum – the most terrifying, life-shaking moment I’ve ever gotten to experience. We have pushed and pulled through mounds of garbage already in his very short lifetime. His mere existence has made me stronger and wiser… more courageous and bold. He softened this cold old heart in ways no one else ever had before. He is my grumpy, popcorn laugh little man… my joy and frustration. I delight in his intelligence and happiness, his determination and sweet heart. I curse silently at his bullheadedness and temper, but these things let me know that he is his mother’s child.
The sweet one that I carry now… I have yet to see its face or hold its sweet, small body. But he or she will share the same bond as my oldest — they too will know this momma’s heartbeat. They too will have my blood coursing through their veins (God bless ‘em). I will love this child with the fire — just as I have loved Gabe. I will be glad in their achievements and scowl at their less-than-fantastic moments. He or she will also alter my life for the better. My old heart will, once again, be softened, and I will gain more courage and wisdom. I will also be granted a few more gray hairs and fewer sleep-filled nights. I will carry him or her now and until they no longer need these arms. I will curse once more at all the “uh-oh’s” because, they too, will be their mother’s child.
My love for them is limitless; boundless. My frustration…. never-ceasing. I will love them as hard as the day is long. And at the end of it all, with my final breath, they will be my loves. They will be my fire.
I hope they both know that.. either now or in time. That this momma is imperfect and cranky and cantankerous. But that they are and will forever be loved differently — but the same.
I suppose only time will tell.
The Money Pit
Most of you know that we moved (at last) to our new digs. We finally got all of our treasured belongings crap into the house and settled in. And that’s when it hit us. We moved into The Money Pit. That’s right, y’all. Evan and I are Tom Hanks and Shelley Long. Except Ev’s not Jewish and, poor guy, I’m not leggy and blonde. Also, Evan’s alter-ego – Bruce Dern – from The ‘Burbs (another great Tom Hanks film), has taken up residence in the joint. He has threatened to shoot innocent bystander squirrels with a pellet gun (!!) for gumbo. I swear, if I see that man on a walkie-talkie, sporting a shrub, I will scream. Okay, I’ll laugh… and then hide from our neighbors in shame. I’m also on constant look-out for film crews (and Tom Hanks, of course) because seriously… this cannot be our life.
Anyway. Back to the money filled pit and the disaster at hand. Like I said, upon move-in we realized that we made a costly mistake. Not only are we being forced to rent and rent is OUTRAGEOUS, but our landlord is a freaking nincompoop. When we moved in, the following things we were not up to par. We were told they would be fixed before we moved in. They weren’t. And they aren’t. And I’m sure everyone’s getting a great laugh at our expense because we bought (rented..?) it:
- The flooring in the laundry room was supposed to be completed. It wasn’t. It isn’t. It’s plywood. And I’m not too excited to wash clothes EVER.. because God forbid my washer go ape-shit and leak on the floor.
- The crap that was left under our shed was supposed to be picked up and/or disposed of. It wasn’t. It isn’t. We live in Louisiana and snakes love places like that. I mean, seriously. COME GET YOUR SHIT. Also, we cannot use the shed because the woman who still owns the property has her stuff locked inside. She lives in Texas now. COME GET YOUR SHIT.
- The ice maker never worked. I was told it was working when we made our walk through. THAT pissed me off. Because hell no it wasn’t. Know why? Because the freaking freezer door was wide the hell open when we walked through. So no.
- The handrails around the deck and by the back and side steps were supposed to be put up or our renter’s insurance won’t cover us. Not only have they not been, but the woman asked Evan to do it. Asked him to buy the materials and everything. Without being compensated. Excusemesaywhat?! Yeah, screw you and no.
And that’s just a taste of what has gone wrong. Our dishwasher broke two days into being there. She sent out a “maintenance guy” twice. TWICE. And both times homie left garbage (!!!) on my kitchen floor and didn’t fix either appliance he had come to repair. But for real…. Do not leave your food trash on my floor, dude. Don’t do it. My house is clean. Pick up your trash, man. The second time he went out he said that the dishwasher was, in fact, working.. but (gasp!) the ice maker was still broken. No shit, guy. You think? And both times he was out he was IN MY HOUSE for one and a half to two hours. To do what? Eat in my kitchen, leave garbage on the floor, and not fix a damn thing. Can you say idiot? ‘Cause I can. Idiot.
So we finally got two out of ten things fixed. Two out of ten things that we, by virtue of our lease, are not supposed to touch. Yet we’ve been asked to fix almost all of it. Seems legit, right? At any rate, when the “fix-it” guy left our place, he graciously let a mouse in. I know this because:
- We are clean folk who don’t leave shit out that a mouse would love.
- We don’t leave doors open and there are no openings that a mouse could possibly squeeze through because…..
- We scoured every nook and cranny and there is no entrance a mouse could have gotten through except the back, side, or front door.
- …and our fresh loaf of bread, that was put away!… and unopened!, had a mouse sized hole right… through… the middle.
Immediately we set out traps. The rat bastard straight up ate the peanut butter off of the first one. The second time he wasn’t so lucky. When I got home yesterday, I noticed a missing trap. Dad said that sometimes, if the rodent is big enough, that it can walk off with the trap. So all night last night I dreamed of mice coming to get me with traps stuck to various mouse-y body parts. Freaked out and didn’t get much sleep. Did I mention that I’m pregnant? So now I’m pissed off and sleep deprived. Sigh. But today dad went to the house to look at our washer that, of course, has suddenly become possessed – probably in part to our pitfall home – and bless his heart, he found the mouse. Dead. Gone. He’s a goner. WOOHOO! So that’s one more problem down.
But just when we think things are shaping up, now we have a skunk (or skunk family) dwelling under our house. The smell is insane. Evan said it like this, “Remember when you were a kid.. and you’d erase paper just for the sake of erasing it? And it had that awful burning smell for a second? That’s what our house smells like.” Guess what guys? HE NAILED IT. That is exactly what it smells like. And I have Febreeze’d, and mopped, and scrubbed, and cleaned. I have done everything short of having an elaborate rain dance in our living room. And it still smells like skunk butt. We simply cannot win for losing.
To add the cherry on top of the melted sundae we are living in, one of our neighbors has a donkey. And a rooster. Both of them like to make their animal noises at ungodly hours of the morning. I have always liked donkeys. I have never seen the point in them, but they’re nice enough animals. But at two in the morning? Sir. Save your hee-hawing for more noon-time hours. And if that rooster crows before five am one more time….
I swear on my left shoe that I just might let Evan have his fun and play-pretend like Lt. Mark Rumsfield. I’ll let you know when soup’s on… or the gumbo, that is.
It’s the Little Things
It really is the little things that make a difference in a relationship. It is for me, at any rate. I have never been a high-maintenance, money-grubbing, jewelry-clad kind of girl anyway (back down guys – I’m taken), so for me little things are generally über romantic. Don’t get me wrong; I love getting daisies and tulips, and I love a good date night. But cooking dinner (or breakfast) to save me some pregnancy brought-on nausea; cleaning the mat under the dish drain without complaining (or being asked to); hell — even watching a goofy, animated movie with me is pretty much amazing in my book.
Guys are, by nature, relatively self-oriented. I’m not saying all of you are, so let’s not get our knickers in a knot. But, for the most part, it is true. Women (although maybe less, lately) are more inclined to be a little subservient or hospitable. Of course, I’m saying that spoken like a true momma who hasn’t had her nails done since January. So all you feminists and single daddies out there…. please don’t hunt me down and gut me. Mmkay? Anyway, I’ve said all that malarkey to say this: when a guy does something that goes out of their way? Or sits right next to you during a movie (instead of in his favorite chair) just so you’ll stay awake so he can spend some time with you? Or eating an awful dinner and swearing that it was good – even when your not-at-all-picky toddler has already determined that it is, in fact, inedible? That, ladies… that man is a keeper.
And I’m going to go ahead and say it, and you can all roll your eyes and, “Oh, Sarah…” as much as you’d like, but playing with my kid and treating him like he’s your own is pretty much the clincher for me. The only thing I love more than hearing Gabe’s wild-man cackle is hearing my two guys laughing together. It makes my bad days better times 100 – and I promise I’m not just saying that. That laughter fills our little apartment with a sudden burst of happiness, and it is a sound I pray my heart will never forget. I so look forward to hearing another tiny giggle added to both your booming laughs in a few months.
And so in closing – babe, you have made our lives so much better in ways I never even thought of. And I can handle your sometimes bear-like ways and whiskers in the sink because of the little things. Because it’s the little things that make up a story…. And it’s the little things that make us love you.
love you, mag.
your fbg.
Coming to a Playground Near You…
…baby number two! That’s right, folks. Gabe is going to be a big brother! We’re all floored (and okay.. happy) & and I am beside myself with nausea. This is Evan’s first time around and my second, so there is a bunch of nervous-excitement buzzing around our (for now) family of three.
Right now, we’re still in our apartment trying to find a house to rent. Which, by the way, is next to impossible. We have until February before we have to give notice, but still. Where are the rent houses guys (the ones that aren’t by bars or in less-desirable areas)?! We called a realtor the other day — one that we’ve dealt with in the past — and he set us on a mission to find a home he rents out. We were both pretty excited because:
1) we liked how he handled our business in the past and
2) we felt that he wouldn’t lead us to ghettos, shacks, shanties, etc.
My, my, my we were wrong. It was disastrous. At best. So we hurriedly got the hell out of Dodge (or Hood, rather) and went home. We’ve scoured our areas of interest only to find… nadda. Zilch. Zippo. Matter of fact, one of the worst ones was listed as, “Private lot, great area, yadda yadda yadda.” So we go look. And just like a popped balloon, our hopes were similarly deflated. Not only was this NOT a private lot (looked like a tiny village lived on the 8×10 piece of property), but this was in no way, shape, or form a good area. Gandhi wouldn’t have lived there. I mean, it was bad.
But all is not lost. I’ve had some good friends lend a helping hand. Matter of fact, I just got off the phone with an old friend with a good lead. So maybe (hopefully) we’re not too far off track. I sure hope not. I mean, Minion #2 isn’t due to land until August, but we’d like to be moved in and (semi)settled before we’re bombarded by sleepless nights and 12, 3, and 6 o’clock feedings. Not to mention Gabe starts pre-k in August. sigh. So many changes so fast!
Our little one is due the day after Gabe’s fourth birthday (August 20th/August 21st). For something that was completely unplanned and a complete system shock, I really should have prepared better. Or something. ‘Cause dayumm. August is going to be ex-pun-sive! We’ll have school x’s two (eventually (thankfully they’re four years apart… whew)). Birthdays x’s two. Annual dr.’s exams x’s two. Gahhhhh. Not to mention that every single grandchild (well… except for two) on Evan’s side was born in what month? AUGUST. Chyup. Thankfully, Gabe is the oldest and only grandchild so far for my parents. Well. Not including jelly bean. My best friend’s little girl, Abi, is a year and two days younger than Gabe. So we’ll have stair-step kids.
I’ve always been so good at planning. Seriously… how on earth did I let that happen? haha.
But at any rate, we’re delighted. And terrified. And exhausted. And nauseated. And craving-engrossed. And we’re happy. Even as poorly timed and inconvenient as this probably is and will be. Gabe refers to my tummy as “bebe’s houzz,” which I adore. And I, of course, in all my stupidity, can’t keep my hands off my stomach.. even though I’m not really showing yet. I just have that irritating pooch that most pregnant women get when they’re first pregnant. You know you’re pregnant. Your fetus knows your pregnant. Baby daddy knows your pregnant. But to everyone else, you just look fat(ter). Ahh, the joys of incubatordom. Me and the little one? We’re having a serious come-to-Jesus-meeting when he or she arrives. ‘Cause this momma’s sick and tired of all that throwing up. So it’s either play nice forever, or stick me in a good home when the time is right. Just throwin’ that out there. Gettin’ ready for that guilt train (woo wooo).
happy trails, mi amigos.
Rockin’ Around (er.. Down) the Christmas Tree
Did somebody say “timber?” No, seriously — whodunit? Because this morning was the THIRD time our little tree hit the dirt as though it had been slugged by a snowball. I oughtn’t be surprised, really; this happens to me every year at least once. And I suppose I should be grateful that it didn’t fall on me like in years past. Two of those years we had company over, leaving me on the couch (by the tree), and at wee hours of the morning the lit dude fell right on top of me. It really is a wonder I don’t have Grinch-y tendencies. No, instead I cut down and kill a tree every year in hopes that someday one will get the (needle) point and, you know, quit being such a pain in the ass. Maybe Santa will bring me a heavier tree next year..? hmmmm.
Anyway, it is finally starting to feel like Christmas here in The Boot and we are all relieved. I don’t know about you, but nothing ruins Christmas more than a hot Christmas (except frozen hot chocolate, which is completely twisted). Evan and I brought Gabe to see the lights in Natchitoches a while back and my parents came along as well. Gabe just loves the lights, what few there are, here in town, and I just knew he would love the festival. It was pure magic for me when I was small — hell, I still love it. So on we went on our first Christmas adventure of the year! Gabe had a ball. He ooh’ed and ahh’ed at all the lights and sights (whew… I’d hate to see that light bill..) and laughed and shot at (yep..) the fireworks. That 1000 watt smile of his positively beamed brighter than the bulbs that glowed and made this old momma bear heart melt. Afterwards, we headed back to town for Cracker Barrel and finally got in the door around 11:30. I think Ev and I are officially on Santa’s Nice List. Right, Santa?
….RIGHT?!
At any rate, this has been an enjoyable, if not hectic, season. We have officially almost finished shopping and are getting ready to settle in before the visits to multiple homes for even more Christmas festivities. Little bit has so enjoyed Christmas this year… I hate to take it all down. But take it down we shall lest we look like we stepped out of Redneck Festivus Magazine. For now and until it is time to head into the New Year I will enjoy watching him gaze at the tree and listening to his excitement any time he sees “Ho Ho.” sigh. Poor Santa. I mean Ho Ho.
Because I am not good at updating with some regularity to ye olde blog, I will go ahead now and wish you all (all three of you poor souls) a very Merry Christmas and a blessed, safe New Year.
be merry.
…laughing all the way
