LOST A SOCK

People pay money for excitement like this

(Cue Rollercoaster song, again.)

At the early part of the week I had made up my mind that it was time for something to happen with the house.  If it didn't want to sell, then FINE, we would take matters into our own hands and rent it out.  But this business of shelling out month after month of carrying costs?  Over.

I have to say that the most nerve-wracking part about the rental process (thus far) has been my complete lack of experience in creating legal documents for renters to fill out - applications, rental agreement, lead-based paint disclaimer, renter's insurance referral, etc.  I've never been a Landlord before, nor have I ever been a renter.  Thankfully I had received both advice and cheat-sheets from a few wonderful readers here, and that has been a great help in covering all the bases. 

So on Monday afternoon as I was trying to get organized, I received a call from our real estate agent that she was actually standing on the front porch of our house while a showing was going on inside.  It was going really, really well, she said.  The potential buyer was yet another young girl from my sister's work who had seen our flyer.  (Yes, flyers.  We're not playing around here.)  Anyway, our agent was quite excited that This Could Be It, right under the wire, as I'd already discussed our plans to give the real estate market a swift kick by Thursday.  She would let me know the next morning whether or not it would be a go.

The next morning she called with the unsurprising news that the girl had decided not to place an offer after all, as she was really looking for something with walk-in closets.  She has a lot of clothing - a ton, as she kept telling our agent, and she was very concerned about where to put it all without a walk-in closet.  That, and her spare wardrobe...for other clothing.  (Holy crap, clothing girl!)  (Also, kiss that fun goodbye, sister - you're nineteen, newly pregnant and house shopping.) 

Anyway.

I continued working on rental documents, and was alerted to another showing that would be taking place Wednesday afternoon.  FORGET IT, I told Kevin.  Not getting my hopes up, not ceasing my work to get this house payment into someone else's hands, even if that means it's still in our name. 

We didn't hear anything on Wednesday's showing.

So just before lunch today I stopped by the old house, feeling a little nervous but also excited for the possible new beginning about to take place.  And just as I'm pushing the rental sign into the ground, a car beeps at me and pulls into my driveway.  It's a real estate agent and he is bringing Wednesday's people back for a second showing.  Now, early on, second showings used to make me panic.  Because seriously, they're interested.  But at this point, we have not only had more than our fair share of offers-gone-bad, but also second showings?  Pfft.  Too many to count.

"Stay," the agent encouraged me.  "They might want to ask you questions."

I really did want to get out of there.  I didn't want to be the one responsible for blurting out something like, Keep your kids out of the busy street!  No, wait, come back.  Please buy our houuuuuse.  Also, I was very nervous since the last time I had KJ at a showing he POINTED OUT A SMALL HOLE IN A WALL to the less than amused couple.  (Hey you want to see the basement, too?  The ancient brick walls seep rain water!)

The couple was very concerned about none other than whether their bedroom furniture would all fit (apparently 1904 builders and 2008 furniture manufacturers DON'T TALK).  I tried to be as reassuring as possible, that we did actually cram a queen sized bed, oversized dressers, and a baby pack-n-play into that room all at the same time. 

It wasn't spacious, but it did all fit.

I answered their other random questions about heating costs and electricity, and whether or not it was okay to place a sofa over a cold air return (bashes self in head with nearby heavy object) and away we went.  The agent promised that he would give us an answer within two hours so that we would know whether we should remove our rental sign.

And five minutes after we pulled out of the driveway?  I received a call from an interested potential renter.  She and I set up an appointment to look at the house and write on my pretty documents on Saturday.

We are either selling or renting out this house.  And it is happening this week, so help me.

Thank heaven for mom's leftover brownies. They've got my name on them. Every. Last. One.

I've begun writing this entry three times now, and have deleted it each time.  I think I need to simply start from the beginning and keep writing until I get to now.

Friday started out fairly normal and even fun, with a morning of yard sales, a wonderful afternoon playdate, and an evening hair appointment where I had five whole inches hacked from my head as I begin the "Simpler Hair, Simpler Times" tour.  Or something like that.  (I'm three for three on whacking my hair during pregnancies.  Crazy ass hormones.  Heh.)

Unfortunately, on Friday night the shit finally really hit the fan in regards to the situation we're in.  Not in the way of having an argument or anything, just one of those terribly long, terribly stressful, terribly sad talks that married couples have to have from time to time when, say, everything seems to be falling down around them.  Eighty percent of the stress comes from a source I absolutely cannot talk about on the internet, but is directly related to, and all at once worse than, the situation with our non-selling house.  Aah compounded issues.

On Saturday morning Breain and I met for a fantastic moms only breakfast, filled with kind words, inspiring advice, and bacon.  It doesn't get much better than that, I say, and it made my day.  Right up until later that night, when Kevin, Jack and I were in a car accident.  KJ was at a bonfire with Kevin's mom, and the three of us were out at the mall.  On the way back to pick up KJ, we were talking as Kevin was driving, and suddenly I looked up to notice that all four lanes of traffic were slamming on breaks, and it was too late for us to stop. 

We smashed into the car in front of us, who smashed into the car in front of them.  I saw it coming the split second beforehand, and while screaming for Kevin to stop, I braced myself and and pushed my back against the seat as hard as I could to prevent baby Marin from being crushed by my seatbelt.  Kevin and I were okay, and Jack was fine (excited, even, God help me) but I spent the next hour and a half crying my eyes out as I waited to feel my baby move.

She did, eventually, when we got home and I gulped down a full blast of caffinated coffee.  It was very scary and about as horrible an experience as I've ever had, and one I plan on never having again.  I don't know what will come of the situation with the other two cars, as the woman directly in front of us jumped out immediately screaming like a banshee at the police about "Momma's diabetes!"  I'm going to leave this one completely in the hands of our insurance company.

On Sunday we had both sides of our family over for a Mother's Day barbecue, and everything was nice.  Pouring, freezing rain, and blowing wind, but nice.  Indoors, it was.  And I received chocolate in multiple forms.

I collapsed on the couch at nine o'clock last night, trying to keep my eyes open long enough to spend some time reading about Landlording while Kevin worked on something or other for work.  We have finally decided that our only good option at this point is to put the house up for rent, bail ourselves out at much as possible, and hope for better luck at the real estate market in a couple of years. 

So the roller coaster ride is still rolling, but we're hanging on for dear life.  I've never experienced a set of crazy months like these before, but I do know that things have to calm down eventually.  And when they do, I'll let you know.  Thanks for being here.  It means so much.

The vent heard round the world

So I'm sure you've had one of those headaches before, where it starts out a dull pain at the top of your head.  "It will be okay," you think to yourself, and even walk right past the supersized bottle of Tylenol.  An hour later, it's worse.  You take the Tylenol and think it will knock it out of you, no problem.  But no avail.  An hour later you're taking a second set of those little babies, kissing them as they pass your lips and wishing they be magical to the pounding in your brain. 

The next thing you know, you're holed up in your darkened bedroom, cool wash cloth covering your forehead that for certain has cracked wide open and begun bleeding by now, praying to God that not even the teensiest stream of light make it through those curtains and that the double dose of migraine meds you just swallowed?  Save your damn life, because things aren't looking good right now.

It's pretty incredible, too, that once the bastard headache subsides, there's that residual holy-shit-what-just-happened-to-me ache, but it goes away.  And just days later all is forgotten.

This is my house situation.  It's something we thought we could deal with in the beginning.  Something we thought we could simply wait out, and something we thought paint jobs and price drops and yard work would cure.  But now our heads are really pounding and we want nothing more than for the entire ordeal to please leave us, as soon as possible, we can take no more.

Part of the problem with keeping a journal of your life online is that in the moments when you are at your worst, when there's little more you can do than scream and cry over your overwhelming situation, the whole world has access to it.  It's not that we don't all have these breakdown moments when we feel we can't take any more, it's just that when you let it all out and then click publish?  People may possibly notice that you need to be grabbed by your shoulders and shaken.

We aren't losing either house.  We've not had our electricity turned off, have not skimped on our groceries, and have even able to dine out from time to time.  We've made some sacrifices and given up some things - even some important things, but as a family we are still okay.  We spend the precious time we do have together, together.  We never argue about the situation we're in, and we don't have any regrets for buying our new house.  We just wish things could be different.

We spent the first five years of our marriage living paycheck to paycheck, and then when Kevin got the new, better job, and then the next new, better job quickly thereafter, we thought we were finally free of the knotted shoulder muscles caused by financial strain.  We were so excited to have made it out of that alive, that we thought maybe we should even be rich someday.  We took the step that we could afford to take, and we got into the new house.  We knew that when the other place sold, that at last we would be able to live pretty comfortably, and finally build up a nice savings and a retirement.

Sweet relief, and letting that breath out is what we were anticipating.

It's got to be right around the corner, we just kept saying.  But my God, so many corners and we're going in circles by now. 

I was thinking this morning about how I've seen this pattern repeat itself in my adult life.  With each of my sons, pregnancy came neither fast nor easy.  There was a wait for both kids, and a period of time where I thought I would lose my mind.  Infertility was not as awful for us or as lengthy a process as it is for some, but it really wore on us, practically being able to taste our dreams come true, but not.  And I wondered to myself this morning what I learned from each of those situations where I had to wait through something so trying and so difficult. 

I learned that miracles most certainly do happen, and that when they do the residual sting goes away more quickly than I imagined.  I learned that when you really have to put your mind to something, and push yourself to take steps in directions you never thought you'd have to, that the happy ending is infinitely happier.  I learned that you just. cannot. give. up., even when you're tired and sad and overwhelmed.  And I learned that when the shit hits the fan, you find out what you (and in our case, our marriage) is made of.

Closing in on an entire year on the market, coupled with the other stress factors we've presently got going, has made the last few weeks the most difficult.  We've never been here before, and we really don't know what to do next.  There have been days, especially lately, that we've longed for someone infinitely wiser to enter our lives and drag us out of this situation.  We'd happily do as told. 

But after a few days of really thinking about my glass half empty post, I know that no one can fix this for us, and that the only thing I can do is get back to a place of gratitude for the situation.  We're here to learn something, and maybe it's a big something that takes a really long time to learn.  (Or maybe we're terribly thick-headed, which is a good possibility.)  There is no sense fighting this or worrying non-stop.  The house is still there, still empty, still ours either way. 

Things are going to be okay -- and not just down the road.  Things can be okay right now if I choose them to be.  So if you'll excuse me, and excuse my previous pitiful rant, I have to climb back on the horse now. 

(Wait, women aren't even supposed to ride horses while pregnant, are they?  Now I get it...)

I believe that if there were ever a time to panic, the time is now

So we are now just days shy of the one year anniversary of having our house listed on the disaster that is the real estate market.  If Me Now could go back and talk to Me Then about what was to come, I would probably just hug my terribly hopeful, naive self.  There would be no promises that things would be okay, no words of wisdom to just have patience.  Keeping the house in perfect order for showings, the treacherous roller coaster that was waiting to hear good news or bad from potential buyers, and keeping my kids in a constant state of clean and run was no way to live last summer.  And when it got to be too much by last September, we took a leap of faith with the offer we had secured, and we bought our new place. 

Of course you know the story, that the offer fell through and we ended up with two houses.  Then the second offer at Christmas time with the same unhappy ending. 

We've been carrying two houses for close to nine months now, and if you're guessing that we're under a bit of stress, you'd be right.  That, coupled with Kevin's awful work hours and the fact that I'll be delivering a baby at the end of the summer has been a lot to deal with, especially lately.

From Day One we tried to keep a positive attitude, always saying that our turn must be right around the corner.  We've knocked 25% off of our asking price, willing to go as far as receiving not a dime should we ever close on this place.  We just want to be free of it.  Last fall we raked leaves as needed, shoveled snow all winter, and now have begun cutting the grass and keeping the yard up again.  We kept the place lighted and heated and cooled as temperatures rose and fell in order to have comfortable showings, and we've cleaned and cleaned and cleaned.

Back in January when we learned that we were pregnant with our third child, I immediately began thinking about what that would mean.  Obviously, it meant re-buying every baby item since we'd gotten rid of everything before the move, sure that we were finished having children, and I also thought about a larger vehicle, having two in diapers, formula, insurance, and so on. 

We realized fairly quickly that, thanks to the double mortgage situation, buying a larger car was out of the question.  We'd have to cram our kids into what we had and hope for the best.  That was almost easy to deal with.

Next went our plans for any more upgrades to the new house, and sadly we said goodbye to the idea of our badly needed summer vacation.  As things got tighter and the baby's birth draws nearer, we've looked into downgrading Kevin's car, though found that not to be an option since we owe more than it would trade for, and thus the decision that if nothing else we could save on the cost of gasoline and Kevin would begin riding the train to and from the city.  This, of course, takes away his freedom to leave work when he's ready as he must rely on a spotty train schedule.  And I can tell you, for a man that leaves at 5am for work every day and arrives home at 10:30pm?  It's a sacrifice to not be able to hop in the car and head home on his own clock.

Going back to work for me, at this point, is not an option.  Teachers in my neck of the woods make little more than one flipping burgers at a local fast food joint, and to swing daycare for two - soon to be three, would barely be covered by my salary.  We'd be lucky to break even.

And so the latest to go has been our application to the private school we'd enrolled KJ in for kindergarten.  More than anything else, this was one "extra" that we wanted to proceed forward with in spite of the house situation.  But from the moment I signed the papers (and payed the three hundred dollar registration fee, EEK) I worried about how we could possibly swing it.  I spent hours re-working our monthly budgets, and I knew that we'd really be risking the last of our financial stability, and we had to create a new plan.  Thankfully, our son has been just fine about the whole thing, happily acknowledging that the public school has not one, but two playgrounds, which sort of makes me glad for him and breaks my heart all at the same time.  (And it's not that I'm saying there is anything wrong with public schools, it's just that we had a preference.)

Which brings us to now.

Now Kevin and I have both been even dealing with the situation in our dreams at night, feeling sort of sick all the time lately - needing something to just happen already.  We really did think that once Christmas passed, once the new year began, once the snow melted, once spring arrived, once the weather warmed up, once the tulips bloomed, that the house would sell.  And so we continued to give it as fair a chance on the market as possible.

But this sick, worried feeling in my gut is one that I cannot shake.  I feel like we're drowning and can't find the surface of the damn water.  I wish that I could detach emotionally from the situation, and put an end to my belief that good things just happen to people who are doing their best.  Because, seriously, it's tripping me up.

I bought a rental sign yesterday.  We originally said that April 30th was our deadline for sitting on the market, but the icy cold feet are playing a prevalent role in my ability to take the next step.  I've been reading a book on property rental and paging through the informative documents that have been shared with me.  And for a million reasons, I still abhor the idea of renting this house out.  First and foremost, I've got enough going on with caring for the boys and getting ready for the next baby, and obviously Kevin has no time to deal with renters since he spends ninety percent of his week in the city.  The roof needs to be replaced, the basement seeps water every time it rains, and the mortgage company does not allow for rental properties.  (Of course in discussing re-fi's with other banks, we have to leave the house off the market for 60 days before they'll even look at us, which would mean more carrying costs.)  I worry that someone will break a window, scratch the hardwoods, or let the cat they're secretly keeping pee all over our new carpeting.  I worry about getting a renter, and keeping a renter, and what to do if they fail to pay.  Those are bigger problems than I even have now, with it sitting there empty.  (Except for the assholes who dumped a large cup of chocolate ice cream all over the floor to harden while I was in the hospital last week.  Thanks.)

I barely even know how we got here, in such a predicament.  But I'm so very troubled about the entire situation.  I don't know whether it's time to rent because every time I think about it, read about it, talk about it, I feel sick.  But I know we can't go on forever blowing ourselves up financially, either. 

I feel like we've exhausted every channel and are at the end of our rope.  We've waited patiently, taken leaps of faith, and held on tight.  And now we're really, really at a loss.

Representing the Youth of America

So it's Primary Day here in good old Indianer.  A day to either speak up and be counted, or sit down and stop complaining in terms of which valiant leaders we'd like controlling our political offices. 

I remember the last time we had a presidential election, KJ was just a toddler so he and I made the trip to the polls together.  I signed in and headed over to the little booth, baby propped on hip, and the moment I cast my vote for president, he let out a well timed, terribly disappointed, "Awwww."  The whole room cracked up.  I need not tell you who I voted for.  Heh.

Today I decided to wait for him to get out of school so that I could take both boys with me to the voting poll and teach an important lesson about being American. 

On our way there, I explained how the process works and how, person by person, state by state, we decide who we would like to see run for office.  I very briefly explained who the candidates were, starting by saying which one was a man, and which a woman. 

That was all my five year old needed to hear, of course, because isn't that how five year olds (and some thirty-five and fifty year olds) always choose sides?  By gender?

Mommy or Daddy?  Daddy.

Blue lunch plate or pink?  Blue.

Girl video game character or boy?  Boy!

(You see why I need this daughter I am currently growing, yes?)

Within no time my son was chanting "OBAAA-MA! OBAAA-MA! OBAAA-MA!" as we drove down the street, despite my most un-biased efforts to discuss each candidate. 

After a few minutes he took a break from all the hootin' and hollerin' to inquire about Jack's opinion on this very special issue.  All three of us, after all, had to reach agreement since we would be sharing only one official vote. 

"Who do you want to win, Jack?" KJ asked.

"Wightning McQueen!" Jack responded, clearly pulling for some sort of independent candidate.

And so KJ did exactly what older brothers do, and told Jack he had it all wrong, and went on to teach Jack to chant right along with him for the candidate he liked the most.

It was fun to take the boys in with me, and to show them exactly how voting is done.  I read each box to KJ and directed which buttons should be pushed.  Then Jack had the exciting job of pushing the final button with the red flashing light, which made his two-year-old political experience complete.  It was really wonderful for me to see my kids take a small part in something so large (even if I do believe our political system as a whole is a little off its rocker, ahem,) and to make a point about being an active citizen.  Motherhood has definitely taught me to speak up for what I think is best, not only for the changes we need to make now, but for the effects they will have on my kids and grandkids as they grow up - in everything from education to caring for the Earth to politics.

Now to wait and see if we picked a winner.

Sunshine, Seventy-Five

...and a six pack of squirt guns for a buck.  Can't beat that fun with a stick!

After soaking each other (and me) from head to toe out in our back yard, the boys very quickly learned to pull the plugs and drink from the water guns.  Not that I am the least bit surprised, since I can still remember what that combination of plastic-water tasted like, from twenty-some years ago.  That, and the taste of ice cold garden hose water -- and the taste of dirt.  I assume you have tasted varieties play-doh, school glue and the eraser side of a yellow number two pencil as well?

My first instinct, when my children carry worms around (Jack, specifically,) mix up mud concoctions or try to place little black ants on me, is to be grossed out and point them back towards the clean wiffle ball and plastic bat.  It's crazy how our curiosity and sense of fun (gross as it may be) is changed or lost by the time we reach adulthood, with all of our "serious" issues.  I've put forth a concerted effort over these last months and years to just let them be kids and do what kids do (within obvious limits, duh).  Even though it's sometimes kind of yucky.

Pneumasthma: All the rage of the second trimester

So I couldn't really let Kevin have his hospital stay a few weeks back without taking my own turn, could I?

I started last Monday with a sinus infection.  One of those snotty, blow-your-nose-every-two-seconds nasty colds.  Usually it's awful for the first day or two, and then things get better.  But by the time I woke up Thursday morning my nose and upper lip were begging for mercy, and the sinus misery had spread into my chest.  I was wheezing something terrible and couldn't breathe, so I got in at my OB's office.  He immediately had me admitted to the hospital, which was not really what I'd planned on doing with my day, but if he said so... 

Of course, being only nineteen weeks along, there is no such thing as a hospital bag all packed and ready to go in the back of my car.  There is no spare deodarant or shampoo, a change of underwear, or a toothbrush to be heard of.  So you know he kept me in the hospital for three days, mostly for that very reason, and also to treat me for pneumonia.  Thankfully I was able to beg spare toiletries from the nurse, and convince Kevin to bring underwear, cough cough, pee pee, baby crushing remains of bladder, the very next morning.

Incidentally, my obstetrician also brought in a Pulmonologist, who within three seconds of meeting me chastised me sternly for seeing an obstetrician for wheezing lungs (Hello? I can't possibly be the only woman that consults a baby doctor for everything while pregnant?) told me I need to be allergy tested, get rid of my dog and cat, diagnosed me with asthma, and told me I needed to begin daily inhaler treatments to continue for the rest of my life.

Well.

That was a lot to take in, especially given the turn-off "Bow before me, I am doctor" attitude when I suggested possibly another plan of attack for this respiratory infection I see for maybe three to seven days a year, seasonally.  Then when I went on to explain that I am leery of taking any medications regularly while pregnant (read: Tylenol only sometimes, am slightly anal) I had to hear all about how, IT'S SAFE.  IT WAS TESTED ON BABIES, DUCKS AND SQUIRRELS.  SAAAAAAAFE TO USE INHALER EVERY DAY WHILE PREGNANT, EVEN THOUGH CHANCES ARE THREE DIMES TO A MONKEY'S ASS I WILL SEE ANOTHER RESPIRATORY INFECTION UNTIL THIS TIME NEXT YEAR, WHEN BABY IS NO LONGER RELYING ON ME FOR OXYGEN, BUT RATHER HAPPILY DESTROYING MY LIVING ROOM. 

SAAAAAAFE, the man continued saying to me, in exactly that way, which eventually made me smile and nod, and then roll my eyes deep into the back of my head when he finally left the room.

SAAAAAAFE, until five years from now my child is bouncing off of walls and studies have found otherwise, oopsie?

I'll go with him on the asthma diagnosis.  I'll even give him credit for the call on allergies (but still won't get rid of my dog and cat, sorry).  I just can't bring myself to medicate daily, forever, starting at a quite healthy twenty-nine years old, for something that occurs so seldom.  I most certainly take full advantage of medications when they are warranted, but I am also quite aware of the over-medicated society we live in, and therefore proceed with caution, especially while pregnant.

This visit from this doctor, oddly enough, occurred somewhere in the middle of my Thirty Hours Without Sleep streak in the hospital, from being so hopped up on the Albuteral Inhaler, Nebulizer treatments, steriod treatments, and antibiotics.  Even my poor baby was observed practically doing back flips during my Friday afternoon ultrasound. 

(I found myself watching an entire thirty minute run of The Hospital Channel's "How To Bathe and Diaper Your New Baby" at four a.m. one day, and I believe I've changed a few diapers and given a few baths by this point.  There was seriously no sleep to be had.)

Anyway, I am back home, my children are only slightly traumatized from mother gone missing, and I so happily made it through last night without having lights flipped on fifteen times for a baby listen and vitals check.  I'm hoping the wheeze goes away as I finish up the prescriptions that came home with me, so that I don't have to visit the office of Dr. Lung, the Go To All Lengths, Necessary or Not, doctor.  Ack.  I'll stick with the OB for now.

(Non) Hired Help

Several months ago, upon finishing up an afternoon of paying bills, I brought my giant pile of financial information-bearing papers to the kitchen for shredding.  And as I got to work KJ asked what I was doing, and if he could give it a whirl.  I checked to be sure fingers could not reach the blades, and away he went. 

He's now used the shredder quite a few times, and has the method down pat.  Though, usually, this is something that is reserved for Jackson's napping hours. 

Except for today. 

I paid bills this morning, and without thinking brought up the pile of papers and called KJ to the kitchen.  This being one of his more exciting chores, he raced in and got started.  Of course, Jack quickly followed to figure out what fun was to be had. 

I explained with a little snicker that KJ was playing Enron, and immediately Jack was all about "pwaying Enwon" as well.

At first he excitedly grabbed a handful and tried stuffing them in all at once.

But KJ was quick to show him how to properly unfold each sheet and insert them one in at a time (to make the job last as long as possible, of course,) and though Jack never really got the hang of it, he was quite happy to function as The Unfolder.

And then when the job was finished, the real fun began.  Because what KJ never thought to do was ask if those great shreds?  Could be dumped out, and played with.

They started out with less than half of what had been shredded.  It functioned as grass, and snow, and rain.  They made a mountain, and a pathway, and then the Earth.  And while I declined requests for a big bottle of glue, pleeeease, I was happy to let them play away as long as the mess was contained to the kitchen.

The pile grew larger and larger and larger,

until finally the Fisher Price school bus was called in to haul some of it away.

And folks, you'd be amazed at how much a school bus can really hold.  A whole tower, says he.

Of course, what help would the school bus be without the accompaniment of a bulldozer, dump truck (and lime green squirt gun?) to contribute to the fun.  It was all out paper mayhem, with vehicles,

and bodies, included.

After a good long while, the disaster was wide spread and the paper fun began to grow old, as most things do when you're five and two (and twenty-nine.)  And I looked around my kitchen, which now appeared to be the hosting room from last night's frat party, and wondered what exactly I had started by calling for help in the first place.

Just yesterday Kevin's eighty-two year old Granny shared with me that those days spent with her young children were the best days of her life, and in spite of the somtimes crazy and frequent messes, I can definitely see how.

Week Eighteen: So You Think You Can Wear Non-Maternity Clothing

The last eleven days have been characterized by several new things in regard to Little Miss Zazu:

• Two separate occasions of carefully - very, very carefully - combing Target's clearance rack for items in pink, the color of which I have zero experience.
• Thirteen occasions of panic worry that the doctor was wrong, and I just bought my baby son a six-pack of 40% off floral onesies that read "Little Princess."
• And his her first dolly.
• And pink polka dot pants with a cute little ruffle at the ankle, EEE!
• Feelings of extreme distress from poor, confused Jack, who is catching on with all of the "Baby Marin Buzz," that something in his life is definitely amiss.  There are strangely colored items popping up in his world, he can no longer be comfortably carried by his mother for much any distance, and who is this baby we speak of anyway?  Yesterday he played Baby Marin with a Singing Crawling Baby Mickey Mouse doll for quite some time, wondering if this could really be the baby we are referencing?  And from exactly what side of the family do the giant mal-placed ears come from?
• Three shipments of used maternity capris purchased on ebay, in effort to keep clothing costs down, only to find them as non-fitting and non-returnable.  Fabulous. 
• A triumphant trip to Motherhood Maternity Outlet, where I discovered the joys of the Secret Fit Belly, oh thank God.
• A hotel overnight experience where a nameless husband possibly overflowed the toilet and then made small talk with the manager as he humbly sopped up poop water with white hotel towels, followed closely by a nameless toddler, clad adorably in swim trunks, peeing on the hotel elevator floor.  (This has nothing to do with the baby, but holy crap could I keep it secret??)
• Condemning the belly band to hell, along with its friends, the most horrible line of maternity shirts ever created.
• One mother-clinging toddler, like nobody's business.
• Offers of previously loved baby items from some seriously marvelous people.  (And good Lord of course I'm taking the offers.  This is my third baby, and I'm well versed in how quickly these small people spit up on and grow out of things.)

As I'm getting bigger, and boy howdy have we been making progress lately, I've been thinking a lot about what's to come in this pregnancy.  By this point in my last two pregnancies, I was more overweight than ever, experiencing sciatic nerve, back aches, contractions, and the beginnings of pre-eclampsia.  It was miserable, both times, and as one can imagine, one of many good reasons to not attempt pregnancy again. 

But this time around has been so different.  Pleasurable, I can almost say.  The morning sickness has been gone for a few weeks now, my blood pressure is stable, and only as of recent can I even make mention of back pain. 

(Oh wait, can I tell you that I made it through two and a half pregnancies without the slightest sign of a varicose vein, and NOW I GET ONE?  Right in the crease behind my left knee, for all the world to admire.  Bleh.) 

(We now return to hormonal euphoria.) 

For all of those women I once wanted to slap - those who gushed about how they LOVED their pregnancies - I am amazed that I can finally say I kind of get it.  It's so nice to focus on feeling my baby's little pokes and prods, and what I can eat next (ohhh the appetite,) instead of worrying about declining health and just how close to thirty-five weeks I can get.

Now don't get me wrong --  I cringe each time I step on the scale, because I seriously hate gaining the weight back, and getting up to pee three, four, and five times per night is no one's cup of tea.  (I also seriously abhor maternity clothes, please world why can't you accept me out of doors in my oversized pajama pants and Kevin's t-shirts?)

I'm so glad to have this opportunity, to see the other side of baby-growing days - to experience them knowing things will probably be okay without pouring over pregnancy books and guides, and learning to accept things for what they are.  If only my once-perfectly fitting Perfect Fit Tees would play along, I'd be in big belly heaven.

Now I'll just continue crossing my fingers that the doc was right, the pink is appropriate, the weight is losable, (the hotel won't be double-billing us,) and the toddler realizes that he's really got nothing to fear.  Unless he's not big on Barbie, heh.

I has had caffeines, mmmmm

There was this blog entry I wanted to write yesterday, all about Earth Day.  Then I tried to write it earlier today, and then the zoo, the airport, and my favorite Chicago pizza place called to say they missed us like crazy from just last week, please come back.   So we did.

Normally Kevin comes home in time to see the boys on Wednesday nights, but work has been a bit more hectic than usual (and yes, I do mean Wednesday nights as the only weeknight he gets home in time to see the kids, jab eyeball with nearest pencil) so it was good timing for us to spend the afternoon out and about, and then to meet him for dinner closer to work.  As it turned out, we then had two cars in the city, and the kids chose to ride home with Daddy, which meant my Sarah McLachlan disk at max volume, a big fat Dunkin Donuts coffee, black, a little ice, and I, had a date.  I had to stay awake you know, the brave late-nighter I've become.

I arrived home at 9pm and gave my living room carpet a nice shampoo job.  How I have missed a good strong coffee jolt.

(Also, in case you've wondered at what age little boys have heart attacks over Not listening to Girrrrl Music such as precious Sarah McLachlan, it's age five and a half.  You're welcome.)

Anyway, is two days later too late for Earth Day talk? 

No?

Perfect.

I know that "being green" is the big thing to be right now, and I have to say that I for one think it is fantastic.  I know that there are others who will disagree with me, because some people just plain hate when the world jumps onto a bandwagon just because Brangelina or Your Celebrity Mom is doing it, but when it comes to things like being charitable or taking care of the Earth, I could care less whose influence helps out the cause.  If watching Julia Roberts fluff her composter on the Oprah show gets you all inspired, go for it.  Recycle something.  Change a light bulb.  Does it really matter if someone else thought of it first?

We began recycling in our house about two years ago.  And when I say we, I mean me, because Kevin has been a work in progress.  I had been feeling guilty about all of the plastic water bottles I was trashing throughout the day while on my diet, and so one random day I picked up two white trash cans at the store.  When I explained to my husband that we should then become recyclers from there on out to forever, I promised up and down that it would not interfere with his life and that I would most certainly be the one to take the bags to the recycling dumpsters on the other side of town.  Originally, there was a container for water bottles and cans, as well as one for paper, since I'd be running to those dumpsters anyway.

I don't know why it has taken some convincing for the man, and if you ask him, he will tell you he doesn't really know why either.  Somehow he doesn't get any Obsessive Compulsive Jollies out of rinsing an apricot jelly jar clean and filing it into the recycle container.  Ahem.

When I made the above signs?  I sooo wanted to label the third can (you'll notice, with the color coded evil black bag) as LANDFILL, but I knew I'd take crap from someone.  Dramatics, ohhh, I know.

So we began with water bottles, pop cans and papers.  And then it didn't take very long for me to realize that recycling is easy peasy, and I sort of get to ORGANIZE MY GARBAGE, MWAHAHAHA.  Before I knew it, I learned to check the bottom of every plastic container, thoroughly rinse each and every jar, and I began teaching the kids about taking care of the Earth, and why we should.  We broke down and recycled every. last. cardboard. box. from our move last fall, and by then the ball was really rolling.

I started to think about what other things we could be doing to cut down on not only waste, but also carbon emissions and such.  I made the commitment to (mostly) stop using paper plates and paper towels in my kitchen by switching to cloth towels and cute little Ikea plates for lunch time.  (The kids love arguing over choosing what color plate they want each day.)  I also stopped wiping faces post-meals with baby wipes, and switched to wash cloths.  No brainer, more cost effective.  Some things took a little getting used to (huge paper towel user, formerly) but I can't say it was that much of an inconvenience, being as how I own both a washing machine and a dishwasher.

At our old house, I'd also already begun a change-over to the compact fluorescent light bulbs in most of our lamps, and after the move I decided that should be our only source of light. 

The bulbs last up to seven years, use seventy-five percent less energy, and cut down on my electric bill.  I've also always been a stickler about turning off lights and televisions when leaving a room (thank you, father of mine) so it didn't take a whole lot to get the rest of the family on board with that.

More recently, I've begun recycling plastic grocery bags, and have toyed with the idea of bringing reusable bags with me through the checkout line (though my hang-up with that, still, I'll admit, is that I don't know how the bag packers really will do with packing $250 worth of groceries into a limited number of non-traditional cloth bags while I deal with watching prices, appeasing children and handing over coupons. Convince me that it works for you, if you wish.)  I've also learned to wash all of our clothes in cold water only (really, the socks don't even shiver,) slowed my bottled water habit by purchasing a washable, reusable bottle for summer, and am in the process of making the switch from brand name cleaning products, such as Windex and Clorox Wipes (I did so love them) to combinations of vinegar, water, baking soda and lemon.  I can't really argue with the financial impact of these changes either. 

Last but not least, and mostly for the reasons of Still Have Two Mortgage Payments, Attempting to Tread Water, Please Pass Eye-Jabbing Pencil Again, Kevin will resume riding the train to and from work beginning in May.  It will cut down dramatically on our gasoline usage (thankfully, my SUV runs on E85, which also helps) as well as our contribution to air pollution.

I have to say, I am absolutely enjoying where we are as a family in our efforts.  Our changes have been small, and surely low-impact to the giant mess that is global warming, but I cannot help but think that every little bit has to count for something.  I feel like we are in the very early stages of changes we can make, and would love to hear what you're doing, or what ideas you have. 

(Still not even considering the Worm Condo, sorry.  Blech!)