tomorrow

Tomorrow we will go to the hospital and some number of days later we will leave with a baby. Tomorrow we will know whether I am right or my daughter is right and we will know if Roscoe is the perfect name or if it is not. Tomorrow will be a long and fabulous day and I hope my other two children will survive it. Right now, with the level of high-strungedness it almost looks unlikely, but hopefully all will pull through. The day after tomorrow, everything will not return to normal but that is ok because we will all be perfectly smitten. I hope.

the counting, it is almost down

4 (four) days left.
Or fewer.
(please.)

Someday

Originally I thought I would occasionally write about things that weren't my children. Um, boo for me. I haven't been terribly excited about cooking lately because I weigh 800 pounds and 300 of those pounds are water, 200 baby, and also it's been kind of hot. Not like super hot, just hot enough to not want to do anything but stick my huge swollen feet on top of any availiable furniture while my big swollen ass rests on something else nearby. But I did make some very tasty cupcakes last night to take to Peanut's class today for her birthday celebration, which I would very much like to make fun of, but the kids, they are so cute and sweet and...and I am a mean old lady but I refuse to make fun of kindergarteners. Today. Tomorrow, all bets are off.
Also, when you're eleventeen goddamned months pregnant with some terrifying baby-monster (dude, even my OB said it looked like something from Alien when it moved around my belly) there's really not much else to talk about. Besides children and painful vericose veins. And having to pee and not being able to eat without wanting to throw up. And...lots of other really lovely things.
So. There you are. Someday I hope to having something else to say. Today, there is nothing, and that is not only because of the refusal to make fun of 5 year olds.

The glow, apparently it is gone...

...and has been replaced by something that makes people gasp in horror.
So. We have a week to go.
So.
People have started moving to avoid me on sidewalks, like my water is going to break on their fucking shoes or something. They avoid eye contact. They take breaks from their conversation. They watch me pass and I wonder if my skirt has slipped down my ass.
No. I'm just that fucking huge.
Yay for me.
I feel so pretty.

preK

So the Bean has started preschool again, and he is very happy. Me, I am a big wuss, and therefore also very happy. See, I had decided that it was time for a new preschool for Bean--he had started at his sister's preschool and while it was pretty much perfect for her, it is less perfect for her brother. Also, it is not physically convenient for him to go there. So yes, it was not just that perhaps it was not the perfect school for him, I am also a very lazy, needy woman who does not want to drive all over hill and fucking dale just to pick people up from preschool. We already do that for kindergarten. Perhaps this means that we are only willing to be put out by the needs of the Peanut, and this would be a reasonable assumption seeing as how, you know, firstborn, blinded by psychotic love, blah blah blah. But no. We drew the line for her at preschool as well. The Number One Most Perfect Preschool for the Peanut was a 40 minute drive. One way. Umm...there is not enough love in my heart. 20 minutes tests the boundaries. And this we do for kindergarten, which I view as somewhat more important than preschool, because with any luck, this will be where she goes to school for the next 9 years. So will the Bean, and so will the Sprout. We assume.
So yes. Preschool. All convenient preschools (see: achingly close to Peanut's kindergarten--or at least in the same fucking town) were fully stocked with snotty preschoolers. And while I entertained the idea of perhaps keeping him home and close to me and my ever-expanding busom, I decided that perhaps getting the hell away from me (and said busom) was probably a good thing for the Bean's little psyche. Give him back his own place where he can have his own friends and his own activities and whatnot instead of making him keep me company while Peanut's at school. And by keeping me company, I mean allowing me to ignore him while I do more important things like clean my bathroom or read the newspaper. So everyone wins. Except...right. The whole perfect-place thing. It's not a bad preschool. It's a really great preschool, it's just that the boy is really different than the girl and so I think we could probably find a better match for him, preschool wise. But on the other hand, he is comfortable there, he knows the teacher and most of the children (some are new, some have left for kindergarten their own selves), and he really enjoys it. Really a lot. He was thrilled to be going back, and that makes me think that maybe that's enough. For now.

I need to be next

So, I was bitter today about having a car that wouldn't start, but then I read that Britney had a baby. Now my irritation knows no bounds. However, I am able to take solace in knowing that my kids are way cuter than hers. Also, that their father isn't Kevin Federline.

losing track

I've been thinking about this. This here. This here web-log thingie. It doesn't really make a whole lot of sense. I tend to think that mom-blogs are boring and self absorbed, which is not to say that I don't like to read some of them (with stalker-like regularity), and wouldn't like to be (able to write) exactly like them. To be honest, I am totally in love with some of the dad blogs. They tend to be funnier and have a fresher, somewhat more distant perspective-- which is not a bad thing. A little bit of distance is good for the perspective. It's hard to see the beauty of a thing if you can't get past the junk in its pores.
But back to me.
I like to think there's more to me than my children, but pfft. As if. Also, I am terrified of the internet. You all are scary people. Scary people who want to eat my children, or something. I'm not really that interested in being honest, and I'm not funny enough (or, really, at all) for people that I am not related to to be interested in reading this. So. There you have it. There is no reason at all for me to be doing this. I mean, beyond the fact that nobody reads it but me.
And yet.
Here I am.
To tell you that my mom spent 60 dollars on baby socks this weekend. For my baby. That's due in...some number of days. I've lost track. 60 Dollars. On baby socks. This is big love. I didn't even force her into it. I mean, not really, although she may have seen how sad I was that I couldn't bring myself to spend $140 on a diaper bag that I totally don't need, or how I am so sick of unisex baby clothes. We both lamented how lame I am that I can not be like a regular fucking person and find out the baby's sex. Unfortunately, clothes shopping does not qualify as a justifiable reason to get another ultrasound for the Husband. Damn his good sense.
So. Yes. 15 days. We have socks so hopefully my nightmares about not being prepared are a thing of the past. And today I think the realization hit that I will, in fact, very, very soon, be responsible for three small people. Holy shit. Those poor, poor small people.

Ok, so if anyone really IS reading this and clicked on the second funny hoping for something, you know, funny, and ended up reading a September 11 post...this was not my plan. Mostly, he is with the funny. Please don't hate me.

fucking yellow

So. We are now on day 18 in the countdown to Operation: Fetal Freedom. It's a little weird to have the kid's birthday all picked out already. There are days when I wish I knew whether it is a boy or a girl so that I can go on a sex-specific shopping spree. The yellow, it is not doing it for me anymore. So, so much small swank out there in the world, and I am stuck with the yellow. Which is a lovely colour, if you are not forced into it.
Before Peanut and Bean were born, we were sooooo not prepared. Peanut came early and we had just (JUST) moved into a new house before Bean came and we hadn't really even started unpacking. While I was in the hospital my mom unpacked all my clothes and when I came home I was surprised to find my socks in my closet, nestled in the bathroom waste-basket. Needless to say, they're still there. It is a lovely basket. So this time, we have a painted nursery with a real-life crib, and when I show excitement over said crib, Papa-san loves to point out that the child will probably never actually see the inside of it. Peanut and Bean hated the crib. But here we go again. With a crib. And the hope that it will be slept in.

time bomb

So...made an appointment for a c-section today. Kid's birthday may be September 26, three days before Peanut's. Sorry Peanut. When I mentioned that Peanut might be very upset about having her birthday overshadowed by this new, intrusive birthday, the doctor said that I should have thought of that nine months ago. Yeah. Well. There are lots of things I should have thought about nine months ago. Not least of which was how fucking difficult it was going to be to kick Papasan out of his office so that I could commandeer it for nursery-related purposes. Thank god the move has been made. Mostly. Now all I need to do is move all the baby furniture out of the living room and into the nursery and then lock myself in until September 26. Or maybe longer. We'll see how it goes.

Survival of the foolest

So we survived the first week of school and are in the process of surviving the first weekend of the school year. Thank god it's a long weekend. Husband and I did a bang-up job of completely ignoring the children so that we could get some work done, and despite being told that this was, in fact, how children were raised since the dawn of time--meaning, presumably, left to their own while parents fished, hunted, gathered, searched for yummy, yummy mind altering drugs in the undergrowth--I just can't believe how many children survived their childhood. Peanut and Bean can keep each other entertained for several hours but then everything goes to hell. Yesterday, every damn thing we own was abused in some way because the Grown Ups were Too Busy doing Stupid Shit to pay attention to the needs and wants of the little ones. The carnage was substantial and completely overwhelming which is why, instead of cleaning while the other three people I live with are visiting Grandpa, I'm doing this. Which is very like nothing. But hey! We got the office moved and the nursery painted! Which is...a lot. Especially for me. Very much eight months cranky. Or pregnant. Hopefully not pregnant with Cranky. I don't want to be chronicling the progress of Cranky.
Also, the garden is winding down. Which would be sad if I wasn't so damn tired of green beans. Bags of frozen tomatillos wait for winter cooking, tomatoes are still ripening on the vines and the zucchini plants, while slowing, are still producing. Now we're watching the pumpkins, wondering what the hell varieties we planted and if we'll still be interested when they're ripe.