You really shouldn’t expect much of $300 couches, I know.

But!
My husband was trying to be frugal when he bought it.
And its ugliness has served him well for many years.

I’m just saying that when you sit down and get splinters, the thing’s gotta go.

That agreed upon, I set out to find something that my husband might actually buy and enjoy.
Think ugly.  Very comfortable and very, very ugly.

Scratch that.  I googled “ugly couches” to give you an idea of what I meant and am now humbled by the crap out there that people will rest their butts upon.
Surely ugliness that pronounced will rend a sort of fungus upon those who rest upon it?

Ahem.  I digress.
Damn.
My entire train of thought derailed because people keep this in their house:

Everything seems so cluttered lately.
I’ve lists of things to do in my head but very little motivation to accomplish.
Every time I pick something up, wash something, vacuum something – it’s a very short amount of time before it’s messed up again.
Plates left on tables that end up on the floor because I think I’ll wait him out – wait for him to pick up the plate… and the dogs get to it first.
Clothes dropped by the front door throughout the house.
Empty water glasses everywhere… up to 3 a day.
As though the setting down of those things makes them become invisible to all but me.

Even now I find myself sitting at the corner computer desk in my youngest daughter’s room – the corner that was supposed to simply BE a corner in HER room has become a computer room that I store some of her things in.

I need a nap, a rest, a break.
This staying at home thing is such a blessing and I don’t mind being the one in charge of the chores and cooking and cleaning.  I mind the simple lack of respect that I’m getting – it’s so easy to pick up after yourself.   To not make things harder on someone.

C’mon, rain.  Hurry.

This is quite the winter for this Mississippi girl, with record snow levels so far and plenty to watch and learn.

I’ve learned that I love soups and stews and dumplings and am expanding my repertoire to include them.
I’ve learned that I love to knit, really love it, but… Sort of stink at it.
I’ve learned that living without my child on a regular basis empties my life – I love being with my husband full time in a way I could never have imagined – but that happiness does not detract from the fact that I miss my daughter every second.
I’ve also learned that I’m quite the pregnant wimp – I lack the ability to suck it up and being unable to breathe and clean my house makes me WHINE!

This morning I woke up at 5:30 to take my husband to the bus stop for racquetball practice – not all that exciting for me, but for a man that hasn’t played in 2 months, well… Let’s just say I earned enough wife points to let me out of cooking tonight.

Have I mentioned how much standing up and moving around sucks right now?

Whine?

Molly, the baby, is baking right along – I’m excited to meet her but in this, my last week of pregnancy, I’ve reached panic mode.
What, in the world, am I going to do with a baby? Love her, sure – but it’s been 14 years since I last took care of a young one. I’m a little out of practice. Okay.
A lot.

But, I can’t wait to see her little face.
I can’t wait to have all my family together.
That’s when life will enter the officially perfect phase.

I know, I know.
I’m being overdramatic.
I think it’s my right, being 9 months pregnant, a big baby, and freezing to boot!

There are fun things about the weather.
I love watching the snow fall.
I like waking up to the white everywhere and seeing the kids play in it.
I like the idea that my daughters will know what real snowfall is and will be able to make a snowman more than once in their lives.

I also find it odd that the apartment complexes all have their own little machines for ice/snow removal on the pavement.  The complex next to us owns their own bulldozer!  or backhoe.  Technically I think it’s a backhoe, but my brain is really too frozen to think about it much.

My daughter comes to visit in less than 2 weeks and I’ve never been so excited in all my life.  There really aren’t words to explain how much you can miss someone until you’re missing one of your children.
Missing Nick was bad – but livable.  I found a new normal with our separation that I’m struggling with in this separation from Abigail.
I have not had an adult day where I have not been her parent and very few kid days – I’ve been her mom for half of my life at least and that makes an impact.

So we’re learning something new – hopefully not something forever.  I think we’d both go to pieces a little bit at that.  I worry about her.

BUT!  That’s neither here nor there – we’re not walking down that path today.
Today we’re  cold.
Looking forward to her visit.
Putting off Christmas shopping and unpacking.
And enduring Braxton Hicks contractions.

Those painless little contractions that are currently stoving up my uterus and making me want to punch the small schoolchildren outside of my window.
I’m so glad they’re painless.

(Don’t worry, the kids are safe from me, because, as I may have mentioned – it’s COLD out there.)

Pregnancy is progressing.  35 1/2 weeks now means that the time is rushing up on us.
I wish I had her nursery ready or her clothes washed or even enough boxes unpacked to get to half of those things.
But moving has been slow – I’ve been lazy and sore and lazy and tired and lazy.

Nick woke me up panicked that I was going to go into labor without having a hospital bag packed.  I have now promised to see to that this week so he can sleep at night.
I wouldn’t want to make it up there without my neck pillow, after all.  What a goose.
The hospital is only 2.5 miles away, so this wasn’t a factor I really worried about – I worry more about him having to leave mid-labor because the dogs need to be walked and fed.
This living away from the massive support system I’m used to is not for the faint of heart.
Maybe he should make friends for situations like this?
It’s a thought.

All in all, I’m not quite ready for Ms. Molly’s arrival.
I’m scared that it’s been so many years since I’ve done this and I’m a bit emotional with missing my Abigail…
And I have no idea what to do with the umbilical cord or changing diapers quickly or how to go without sleep when I actually want sleep…
So I’m doing the new mother chickening out thing.
Which isn’t very useful at this point, considering.

So the point being that things are good.  I’m cold.
Good and cold.

But I’m fairly happy – it’s neat getting to know my husband again, in a way that I haven’t gotten to know him in years.
He has changed in many ways that I didn’t expect, some good and some bad, but watching him navigate around his now 8 months pregnant wife is like watching a subtle ballet that’s fairly efficient in.

That’s not to say that there haven’t been a few battles, but our battles tend to be more like tiny blips when compared to most couples – a dish left in the sink instead of put in the dishwasher (blame the OCD for my overreactions on this one!) or stares at the purchase price of our new LED TV that we simply HAD to have.  They’re no biggie, and rarely register after the first moment or two as anything but a mild case of irritation.  That part is nice.

Sleeping with someone is nice – when I can sleep.  I’ve forgotten how comforting it is to have someone there who is responsible for paying attention to all of the little noises that I hear at night and deciding when to flee or fight.

The Minneapolis weather is hard to get used to.  I think Abbey would enjoy it much more than I do – she’s a warm weathered child and all of this cold and the many activities you can do in it would suit her immensely – once I could persuade her from behind the computer or IPod or phone.
I’m learning a lot about the cultural atmosphere here – not for any one culture, just that midwestern people are different.  They aren’t as nice, for one thing – and not that they aren’t nice, but they don’t talk to each other and embrace each other in the way that Southern culture  holds so dear.  I think Nick likes that – I… don’t.  They’re perfectly lovely for the most part, but part of me craves that cuddly closeness you get down south.
The foods are weird.  Asian cuisine everywhere, which is good when I’m not pregnant and want to eat it.  Mexican here and there, though I have yet to have a meal at a Mexican restaurant in Minneapolis that is a genuine dish… disappointing.  Coffee abounds – Seattle can’t have anything on this area – and I’ve decided I may have to start to like it if I’m going to make it through the winters.  It seems a key ingredient to survival of the locals.
The streets are insane – the city’s streets were put together by a blind toddler – but they’re clean for the most part and the shopping is amazing.  I just don’t like to shop!  The locations of the nearest grocery and Target are a win – less than half a mile!

All in all, life is pretty darned good.
Now, if someone could magically make the custody battle over with and me the winner, I’d be much obliged.

Though I will say that no one wants to know the Inner Me that is currently inhabiting my third trimester pregnant body.
The newly off Zoloft third trimester pregnant body.
Yeah.
My doctor is a GENIUS.  Because THAT was a great idea.

I know, I know.
We don’t want the baby to go through withdrawal symptoms after she’s born from Zoloft – the lows from that are misery-inducing.
We also don’t want the hormonal pregnant woman to set up shop on a roof somewhere and throw rocks at people.
So it’s a trade-off.
My motherly instinct won.  Especially the motherly instinct that seems to be living in my husband’s body.

Never did I think that I would see the day where I’d lose my gung ho husband to overprotective fatherhood.
I’m convinced that if we’d received socket covers in the baby shower he’d already be using them to keep me from sticking things in the sockets by proxy – because it might hurt the baby.
No amount of persuasive arguments will convince him that poking the stomach right now won’t hurt the baby.  He doesn’t care if it’s to make the baby move, to play with it, or because I just seem like one of those women that would like randomly poking things – I need to stop and I need to stop NOW.
I have dreams about throwing her up in the air – when she gets to that fun stage, not when she’s still a floppy doughgirl – that cause me to wake up giggling at the idea of his face.
Parenting may be the straw that broke that particular Italian camel’s back.  Because things can HAPPEN to the kid.

But then again, it may be him going crazy after dealing with me.
Because right now I’m batshit nuts.
And, I don’t mean incapable or homicidal or unstable or any of those things that might cause a custody judge to read this and think I’m a half step away from the crazy farm.
I mean I’m hormonal, fat, uncomfortable and UNABLE TO EAT PROCESSED SUGAR! DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT THAT DOES TO A PERSON?!!!?

Apparently what that does to a person is causes them to procrastinate on packing and cry a lot.
And eat buckets of Sonic ice and stare longingly at the Eggnog lattes at Starbucks.
And eat 3 boxes of Corn Flakes in a week.

My life revolves around food a lot lately.

Ah well.
In another week I shall be well and truly nuts – on my way to Minneapolis,  with my husband and two beagles, leaving my daughter to finish out the school year with my parents – because that is the only option I have with all of the custody mess being put off, thankyousomuchlawyerofmyex’sthatseemstothinkdraggingthisoutovertimehelpsAbbey

This period in my life is the hardest I’ve ever been through in the 30 years I’ve been alive and I can’t even comfort myself with a Snickers.

For those of you that will see me in the hospital after this placenta is gone and I can once again have sugar, don’t judge me.  I can freebase refined sugar if I want to.

I will be a mom and a wife.
And not much else.
No longer a… whatever I have been these past few years.

Expectations that I’ve had for myself throughout the years are changing daily.
I’m nervous. I’m scared.
I’ve been hired for a ‘job’ that I can’t fail at.
And oddly enough, in this case, I’m the only one qualified for it.

So.
Goodbye, steady paychecks, timecards and filing.
Hello… whatever comes next.

I made a semi-joke on another blog today (on a very clever blog post by one of my newfound favorites, Fierce Beagle) about Nick and I handling this pregnancy with the Sink or Swim Method – a joke that doesn’t even come close to the juggling and planning that is going into making sure this child’s life is a bit smoother than Abbey’s.
You see, I had to sink or swim with Abbey too – but entering adulthood at 16 is far different than dealing with an unplanned pregnancy at 30.

At 30, I define my pregnancy as unplanned simply because I hadn’t penciled it in to my schedule – hadn’t yet made the decisions and sacrifices needed to choose to parent again. But I was conscious of biology and knew, on a subconscious level, that it was just a matter of time.
At 16, my pregnancy was unplanned because EVERYTHING was unplanned. Even the act that provided my fertile self a baby was unplanned. Heck, my afternoon SNACKS were unplanned.
And so I entered parenthood completely clueless – and am continuing through parenthood so incredibly grateful that I am blessed with the family I’m blessed with, that Abbey and I had the support needed PSYCHOLOGICALLY to ensure that she hasn’t had to pay for my lack of planning. I had to work hard, 2 or 3 jobs at a time to handle the monetary part of parenting, but I KNEW I could do it because of my support system.

Now, with this pregnancy, everything has changed.
Oh, not the support.
My family is still here for me, but this time my support has evolved.
I’ve added age and wisdom, a husband, a TON of in-laws, a maturing and wonderful daughter, and more than anything, I’m in a different place mentally.
I’ve grown up.

And even though I’m still completely clueless – now starting all over after having separated the two pregnancies by slightly more than 14 years – it’s almost a joyful cluelessness. The problems that I face with this child will be entirely different than the heartbreaking problems that go along with missed chances and opportunities of growing up as a child raising a child.
It’s bittersweet, knowing that I have a chance to fix many of the wrongs from the first time around – not merely the parenting mistakes that we all make, but the mistakes that come from following your hormones at 15 and having a child pay that price with custody battles and therapy appointments.

You see, she and I did play sink or swim.
And we continue to swim, though more in a dog paddling sense than the assertive breast stroke sense.

But our life is changing.

With this second pregnancy, to sink or swim means that we’ve decided I’ll stay at home. It means we’re questioning our priorities and our quality of life choices in order to provide more support for my two children from this point on. We’re going to continue to drive that 14 year old Mustang, to continue to budget shop, to continue to pray to avoid medical surprises. Our children will have a better foundation now – while we are still energetic enough to provide it – and less of a financial push later on, when they may very well need – or hope for it.

They’ll have to sink or swim based upon their choices too. Colleges and car payments, relationships and faulty judgments. And making that decision for the two of them has been scary.
Weighing the benefits of this life versus the life with the shinier cars and splashy vacations that we all want is petrifying. Choosing the road that is (now) less travelled is petrifying.
Everything about standing on a fence, knowing that a large gust could send us to either side – either make it or break it – is petrifying.

But I think we’re doing the right thing.
Sometimes the good in life stems from the sacrificing versus the spending.
Erin spoke on her blog of the American Dream and while Nick and I may never have that, I think we’re defining our own dream, bit by bit.
He may be bald with stress by the time we figure out if this will work or not, but we WILL figure it out.
We have to.

Because you see, I much prefer swimming to sinking.

After all, my first child is a teenager and only minutes away from riding off into the sunset with a college diploma in one hand and the world on a string in the other.

Being faced with this upcoming change in circumstances has caused me to question a good many things I know about myself.
My eating habits, for instance.  You could say that I’m a person to whom eating a balanced meal means eating a plate full of junk food balanced properly on my lap.
With the last year addition of my husband, Healthy Hunk, this meandering version of nutrition no longer flies as acceptable behavior.  He wilts if he doesn’t have enough good food in his diet and nobody wants to see a giant Italian man wilt in their presence.
Plus, apparently Italian babies require meat, potatoes AND vegetables in order to grow large, strong Italian eyebrows.  And who am I to stand in the way of the Bert-like eyebrows my child’s heritage so claims as her DNA-like right?

And Laundry. 
Laundry, for me, is a very necessary evil punctuated by bouts of wrangling jeans over door frames for maximum drying capabilities and separating anxiety when faced with the prospect of washing too many new clothes without the salt-filled pre-soak.
Adding this stereotypical notion that Laundry will now be part of my Official Duties as a SAHM has thrown me – even though I rarely will allow anyone else near the stacks of dirty laundry for fear that they’ll do it their way and NOT mine.

How many other stereotypes of SAHMs are there that are waiting to bite me on the toe?

Cleaning?  I’m to take care of a helpless ankle-biter AND keep the house spotless?  Time travel truths must rest in the arms of all of the Stay At Home Moms that accomplish this task, because my memories of newborns don’t include the many hours of inactivity needed to maintain a spotless house with 2 dogs, 1 husband and 2 children.

Regular meals?  People like to eat REGULARLY?  And I’m to cook those?  Have any of you seen what cooking for me entails?  Long shopping trips, fresh herbs, homemade ingredients and 2 hours of preparation?  And I’m to do this over and again?  Not just for special occasions and holidays?  BALANCED MEALS?!!

And I’m supposed to do this and maintain the household without catching anything on fire, chopping my husband into stew, losing the baby in the laundry pile, hanging the dogs by their toes or stuffing a teenager into a trash compactor?

I seriously hope my husband can pay me enough for a post-work-day massage.