Baseboards and Ceiling Fans: A Commentary On Nesting.

Within the short period of time in my life that I've found myself preparing for the arrival of children, I've consistently been compelled to take on large home projects, or cleaning duties. My first time around the bend, I believe that my nesting lasted into the first eight months of Allison's life, when all of a sudden I declared war on my kitchen cabinets AND her nursery a mere couple of weeks before her christening. I'm feeling somehow a bit different this time around though. Be it the heat, or keeping up with a two year old already, or the fact that I'm working literally up until four days before surgery, the will is strong, but the body is weakening.

Eva is scheduled to be here in nine days. Which means we'll be bringing her back to the house in about eleven days. My window of cleaning opportunity is very, very limited. I thought about actually staying home from work instead of going this week, in order to make sure that every nook and cranny was properly Lysol'd, dusted, polished and shining. But I'm staring down the barrel of the reality that will be an official full house, and my body's lack of physical will is actually dominating over my mental anxiety about dust and disorganization.

And so, this weekend, I am rallying the troops. And by troops, I mean my husband and a 2 year old.

I hear stories all the time about women who've steam cleaned their carpets, gotten on ladders (alone of course, not to be seen) to clean ceiling fans, hand washing their cars inside and out, two days before giving birth. It seems that most of us would rather house keep our way into labor than any other way. Walking, you say? No. Sex? Are you joking?? Please hand me my Swiffer and my toilet bowl brush, and my water will break in twenty minutes. Maybe it's only a subconscious ploy at inducing labor, or the Big Man's divine design that creeps its way into our heads at the most physically inopportune time that provokes this nonsensical passion for Pine Sol and on-your-knees scrubbing. In the argument of "Is God Man or Woman?", it'd be easy to convince anyone that He rules. No woman would knowingly place this brain lock on another woman. If She were sitting at the head of the table, She'd have made it something that a pregnant woman's partner would have eating at THEM for nine plus months. We carry the fetus, you re-organize what's hiding under the bed.

I wonder why we as women care so much. Is it really important that the grout is bleached white on the kitchen counter? No, probably not. But perhaps it's the idea that we think, or feel that the opportunity to do these incredible cleaning tasks are going to be all but completely diminished once our baby is here. We may never see the mop come out again. Who would have time to run the vacuum when there's hardly time to brush your teeth? Horror stories of going days on end without a shower or a wink of sleep permeate an expectant mother's brain, be she a first timer, or a multi-birth veteran. Then we get home. And we learn that a baby will fit perfectly in a papoose across your chest, and sleep soundly through the running of the vacuum, folding of laundry. There is time somewhere between sanitizing bottles and watching Tinker Bell with your older daughter to grab a quick shower, or go to the bathroom alone. But, hey, at least you don't have to stare at those baseboards, or wonder about all that dust on the ceiling fans anymore.

I digress.

Lists are made, plans of action are formed and as Ms. O'Hara might have said under other circumstances, "as God as my witness, I will never be defeated by a water spot again!" Here is hoping that Eva will appreciate all the last minute hard work that's about to ensue today, tomorrow and for the next eight days. I know that when I'm awake for mid-night feedings, the last place I'll be compelled to look is where the wall meets the carpet. As pretty as a clean house can be, it'll never be as pretty as when a baby comes home to live in it.

The Big Girl Bed.

After Allison turned two, we realized quickly that she was not long for staying in the crib. At a meager thirty-eight inches long (that's three foot, two inches people, and they don't even HAVE a percentile for her at this point), the crib mattress seemed to shrink around her legs and torso. On top of this blessed physical anomaly, it also became increasingly painful to lift her up and over the rails every morning, naptime, and night. Thirdly, we were being beckoned awake each morning, long before necessary or desired, with her reaching down and flinging her door open, calling out to us - "Moooooommy.... Daaaaaaaaddy". We conceded and purchased the first big girl bed.

It arrived on a Saturday. Our trial run was Sunday, naptime. She eagerly jumped onto the massive full sized mattress, laid her head down on the pillow, and rolled into position. I had no idea how she was going to react to this change. I waited patiently for her to get out, preparing myself for what would surely be a long, drawn out afternoon of walking to and from the bed, negotiations, and pleading. I waited. I picked up things around the house, put away toys and shoes and dusted a little bit. An hour went by, then two. In the third hour I realized that we might have very well given the entire house an amazing gift. The gift of sleep. She woke, finally, after over three hours peaceful napping; she was happy, talkative, walking around laughing. I tried not to look a gift horse in the mouth, because I knew that naptime had nothing on what night-time sleep could bring. I was grateful for the experience, and wiped the expectation slate clean.

Nighttime started out much in the same manner. She didn't peer out of her room for the first three nights. On night four, however, she realized what a fun game it would be to see how long she would go unnoticed by us, playing on the tile near the fireplace in the dining room. Her dead give away? Cowgirl Jessie's feet tap, tapping on the ceramic flooring. The pull of the string on her back: "Ride like the wind! Let's yodel! Yow-dah-ly-eeee-whooooo!" that was inevitably followed by two year old giggles. Hide and go seek is clearly a new idea to her. In a matter of thirty minutes, we took turns putting her to bed a total of eight times. Finally, empty threats to keep Jessie to myself the next time she got out of bed did the trick. And she slept - hard.

Waking up is a lot more fun, and a lot more early, than it's ever been. Long before my dear slumbering husband's comatose-like state is interrupted, I hear the shift, shift of monkey pajamas walking down the short hallway to our bedroom. I don't open my eyes, but pause for the greeting. "Hey Mommy. Hey, Mommy, get up. Time to wake up Mommy. Mommy, where's the 'mote?" By this time, I've sent her to her father's side of the room to retrieve the remote control. He's mastered the ability to, with near blindness not wearing his glasses, push buttons 2 and 8, then waiting for Disney channel to provoke her to climb in bed with us to watch Imagination Movers, or Special Agent Oso, or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, depending on what time of morning she decides to come in.

If it's especially early, and she's really not that awake yet either, I'll get up and we'll zombie-walk our way back to her bed. And some asked me why I went with a full sized mattress.... If they only knew how wonderful it is to lay next to this long-legged beautiful girl while she falls back asleep. To literally have her reach around my neck with both arms and hold onto me. To be face to face, close enough to read eachother's minds, smiling without saying a thing... a brilliant reminder that, even though she's not getting any smaller, for at least a little while longer, she'll want me to be around.

M&M&M's.

Our daughter's newest and likeliest obsession is peanut M&M's. I have NO idea where this came from. Each morning for the last week we have woken up, had a little chat, changed a diaper and walked to the living room, where the subject inevitably comes to light.

"Mommy, Eh-muh-ne-muh-ne-mahs." Being what feels like 48 weeks pregnant I should have an ample supply of these in the house, but I somehow have resisted stopping in the candy aisle of Vons for several weeks now. I tell that sad, sorry little disappointed girl that M&M's are not for breakfast, contrary to any tantrums (or, probably just a sweet little girl being nothing more than adorable) her dad might have caved into at the car wash the previous weekend. As that is never an acceptable answer, she goes to the other adult in the house and pleads her argument once again, hoping that he'll be at least conscious and able to understand her run-on sentence that can only be translated once she hits the word - Eh-muh-ne-muh-ne-muh. She's learned since her introduction to them that you really cannot hoard them away in your hand - the rule would ring true when her fist would unclench and have a blue-orange melt mark staring at her. Since then, she's mastered the art of popping two or even three in her cheeks to store and melt away until she's got room to chew. All the pleas in my arsenal cannot stop her from chipmunking multiple peanut M&M's. We've been taught to ration.

There's something that you have to understand. These are a staple in my parent's household. It's inevitable that if you go into the refrigerator in the bar to pull out a bottle of water, a soda, a beer, your hand will dump itself into the Costco-sized bag of peanut M&M's and grab enough to sustain you through that drink. There are also concessions for whether you're feelin' lucky, punk, because only the wiliest of sneaky people can get away with bringing those magical little pods within a thirty foot radius of a set of toddler's eyes. And most of the time there are at least four sets of eyes on "what is in your hand?" watch at their house. Grandchildren abound, those candies turn the average Joe into Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny and the favorite aunt in one fell swoop. It's like crack for two year olds and let's face it, pregnant thirty somethings as well. As the resident bad influence in the family, I am usually more than happy to oblige all four sets of blue eyes, and the one special set of hazel ones, with a few left over for myself.

My family will be coming to town here in about a week and a half. And if you think the XL Bag of these daddies aren't making their way into the house you're just wasting your time believing I'm a good, decent, health conscious person. The door to Willy Wonka's world got cracked open a while ago, and it'd be blasphemous NOT to have them here when my dad walked through the door. Let's just hope we can talk Allison out of making them her breakfast cereal.

Getting By.

In the last few weeks I've grown accustomed to getting through my day on a limited amount of sleep. Tonight's attempt rendered a solid two hours before waking up to achy, numb arms AND legs. Walking around the house helps, but as soon as I lay down to try and join the rest of the troops in slumber, the feeling - or lack thereof - shows up again. I do not recall this happening as frequently being pregnant the first time around. I remember waking up around three every morning and not being able to fall back asleep, which also happens a lot now a days. But that was from a racing mind, or a bladder that needed to empty itself three times. This is something new. And I'm going to go ahead and factor in age, the heat, my two plus hour cleaning spree today, and tending to and playing with a two year old all day.

I'm pretty sure I can also blame the fact that I slept entirely too well on Friday and Saturday night, and so, to make sure my mood is thoroughly grumpy tomorrow, well.... Three o'clock and all is well.

Eva is a particularly bouncy little womb-dweller these days. She seems to have no regard for time of day, and when the mood strikes her, she does what can only be compared to a break-dance hip hop Bollywood routine in utero. In about eighteen years I anticipate she'll be on the latest version of So You Think You Can Dance. I would like to think her rolling and kicking is an affirmation of love and adoration from my little girl to her mommy, and that somehow, even when I'm quietly thinking of her, she can feel my thoughts, and in her own way is giving me a love nudge. I just wish that her movements didn't sometimes have to result in settling herself on the nerves that control the feeling in my limbs.

I think that for the most part, in this very moment of sleeplessness, it's safe to say I'm reconsidering the idea of going through this once more. Had I remembered the discomfort and fatigue of the third trimester from the first time around better, Eva might not even have been a thought on my mind. I'll say right now that I know she's worth every waking moment I'm going through, and I know I'll live to see another day. Just imagining the first time being able to see her is enough to make my night fly by with relative ease. So I'll get by tonight, and hopefully my little family will be able to get by with me tomorrow. :)

Put That One In The Books

It's July. Thank God. I think I'm going to find it hard to look back on this last month with any sort of fondness at all. When there's a two year old in the house who can't seem to sleep, eat, or be happy, time stands still during the day, and runs out too quickly in the night. You calculate when the last dose of Tylenol was, and see if she'll be able to handle a bit more than usual cough medication, to get her a much needed long sleep. You wake up three times a night to a sobbing, weak voice calling for you to hold her, and the need to tend to your self, your sleep, your bladder, your illness, ceases. You go to work every day, riddled with guilt, pumped full of daytime medication, hoping you can make it through with enough energy for the go-round that awaits you at home. You pray to just be able to give her water without it coming back up, leaving her for even a moment becomes physically and emotionally impossible. You pick her tired limp body up and carry her to the bathroom, and sit in front of the toilet bowl, waiting for her body to lunge. Waiting for her pleading cries to make it stop. Waiting for your heart to break for her all over again.

Thank you July, for showing up right when you did. We promise to try and enjoy the rest of the summer as much as we can. We'll play in the water table, and pick vegetables from our garden when the sun goes down. We'll take early morning walks before it gets too hot on the weekends, and go look at pretty shiny classic cars on Saturdays, because for her, the cartoon ones are nothing compared to the real deal. We'll play in the sprinklers and eat ice cream and popsicles and watch Daddy barbecue hamburgers and hot dogs for dinner. And we'll sleep. We'll put Sleeping Beauty to shame.

She's a Trooper.

When the conversation of Allison would come up at work, the question of day care would always be brought into play. I had no idea what other moms really meant when they said how "lucky" I was to not have to put Allison in daycare. I figured they were only speaking about the financial or emotional burden it placed on them, paying a stranger to feed, change and care for their children. No. It was not only that at all. It was the fact that we had unknowingly avoided the hazing ritual that is... childhood colds. Only one week after Allison's first part-time stint at her school did she come down with a doozy of a fever/sore throat combo that took her over to the degree where we hardly recognized her. Listless, sleepless, without an appetite for food or even water. And yet, in the moments in between, there were glimpses of sunshine in her smile. One week later, she woke from a twelve hour slumber and never looked back. Relief. I'm hoping the next cold, which I'm guessing will be in only a matter of weeks or less, will be less devastating to her.

When You Turn Two...

Life is good....