if he’s part of this family…

I’ve read and been told to expect that first time mom’s usually have their babies late.

As in after 40 weeks.

As in past due.

As in not exactly my ideal scenario.

If the sprout is part of this family, then he should already know that we don’t DO late.

We’re always early.

For us, being on time IS LATE.

I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up in thinking he will come early…so I’m trying not to. I think I already mentioned that Tim is convinced – convinced – that the sprout will come on February 9th. There is a full moon that day so….maybe?

Apparently there is some truth to the full moon theory. Something about its effect on water and how we’re mostly made up of water and if we’re pregnant and somewhat ready to have a baby the full moon can tip the balance in the baby birthing favor…the whole thing is really too complicated for my brain to ponder at the moment. But it goes something like that.

(He was also convinced that the sprout was a girl, so…)

Anyhow.

I’m officially 37 weeks today.

(!!!!!!!!!!)

37 weeks means full term which means I should really get off my duff and to make sure everything is ready for his arrival. We’re mostly there, really. There are just a few “minor” details – like a completed birth plan – that need to be finished.

Let’s be honest, the kid has a bed to sleep in and diaper rash cream so, really, we’re set.

Also? 37 weeks means that the sprout is free to make his appearance ANY. DAY. NOW.

(Did you hear that, o’ child of mine?)

I actually have an OB appointment today…and that’s probably where I am right. this. second.

Exciting, no?

Maybe they’ll tell me something promising? Fingers crossed!

Afterwards, on our way back home (so Tim can drop me off) we also have to stop by his work to get all of these biometric things done (read: draw blood) for our health insurance. Tim’s company does the benefit thing where you can earn money towards your insurance costs if your health meets certain criteria, like your cholesterol and blood pressure and weight….

Wait.

(ha…punny. It’s the little things, people)

Can we just stop there, on the weight part?

I really think there should be some kind of special BMI formula for pregnant women because COME ON!

It’s not my fault that now is when the biometrics have to be recorded and seriously? Hello? FULL TERM BABY. IN MY STOMACH.

I should get a pass on the BMI is all I’m saying.

If you don’t pass everything in the biometric screening you don’t earn all of the money and instead have to do a special program during the year to earn your dough, like a step program where you have to wear a pedometer and record a certain number of steps every day (like I’ll have time for that) or participate in Weight Watchers (is there a prize for dropping 20 pounds in 2 weeks?)…I’d rather just pass everything from the beginning, earn all my money and be done with it.

Sans baby?

Flying colors. That’s how I’d pass.

With baby?

Praying to pass everything.

Again, fingers crossed.

breaking into fort knox

Guess who spent the better part of yesterday cutting tags off of baby clothes?

THIS GIRL.

Side note: Dear Gerber, Please stop taping your clothes to everything. That’s so 90s. Or so not functional.

If you’ve never had a baby before, friendly little PSA:

There are more little plastic tag connectors and stickers and tags to clip off of a single onesie than there are a pair of panties and they’re the same size.

When you think you’ve finally gotten them all, you find another one, hidden under a sleeve or behind a snap. It’s like trying to break into Fort Knox.

Only softer.

And more maddening.

So, after hours of cutting tags and separating clothes into piles of “warm” and “cold” and “like colors” everything finally made it to the laundry room to be cleaned.

And this was the end result:

ONE DRAWER OF CLOTHES.

I feel like after four loads of laundry, I should have more than one drawer to show for my work.

Conclusion: baby laundry: small…yet deceptive.

Other than the endless loads of laundry, I spent the remainder of my day baking dessert for today. Tim is having some kind of offsite strategic planning meeting thing with his direct reports and invited me to join them for lunch.

I have no idea why…I guess so we could all see the pregnant lady at the zoo…

Anyhow, I said I would make something to bring because that’s what the wife of the boss does, right?

We bring yummy things.

(They’re building yet another house across the street from us and OMG I’M GOING TO KILL SOMEONE. How is anyone supposed to concentrate with the constant banging?!?!?!?!?!?!)

So I tried simple.

I tried cupcakes.

Made without the help of a box cupcakes.

And they failed.

Miserably.

I have no idea what happened. I followed the directions exactly…I didn’t even rush. I had a neat-o little container to carry them and I made the frosting from scratch, too and had it all planned out….

It was not meant to be, these cupcakes.

The baking disaster got to the point that I asked Tim to try them after he got home from work. I wanted him to be brutally honest because I kept trying them and thinking something just wasn’t right.

I tried them so much that I felt sick to my stomach and couldn’t even look at them without wanting to vomit.

He took one bite and was all, “No. Those…just…did you put any sugar in the actual cupcake?…”

I shook my head like, “Yes!!…I did everything the instructions said and they’re still awful! I can’t bring these! I can’t be known to everyone as the wife who makes things that we have to choke down!”

I finally decided that it wasn’t me.

It was the recipe.

And then, I begrudgingly decided to skip yet another workout and start all over this morning at 5:45am with a whole new plan: white chocolate and cranberry oatmeal cookies and cheesecake brownies…with the help of a brownie mix box.

(And I followed the brownie recipe exactly except the part where I used brownie mix instead of all of that other stuff they said to do to make brownies. That looked entirely too complicated for 5:45 in the morning)

Things are slightly messy and not very pretty but much better edible, now.

Hopefully everyone enjoys my blood, sweat and super sore back.

And I seriously don’t want to see another dessert in like…thirty minutes.

Even if Tim’s direct reports don’t like my baking (non)skills, I doubt anyone would give the side eye to the dessert made by a ginormous pregnant lady.

Oh, remember the drawer of clothes I just showed you a few minutes ago (pregnancy brain…it doesn’t always allow for a coherent flow…please forgive me)? This morning, as I made my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I caught Tim staring into it with this crazy cute look on his face while he was waiting for the iron to heat up. He looked up at me and was all, “We’re going to have a baby!…A baby who fits into these tiny clothes!”

He’s so ready for baby sprout. It’s freaking adorable.

Speaking of, I’m officially 36 weeks pregnant TODAY!

As if to celebrate the one month left milestone early, my body decided to give these random, shooting, feels-like-someone-is-shoving-an-ice-pick-into-my-cervix pains last night that came out of nowhere.

I was laying on the couch, minding my own business and then BAM!

PAIN.

I jumped all, “What the hell?! Someone slipped the baby a shiv!”

After I laid there, trying to relax through that bit of fun, I read up on Dr. Google and found that those pains can potentially be either the sprout sitting on my cervix or my cervix starting to dilate.

I’ll take the second option, the dilating one, even though a few of the pains hurt so much it brought tears to my eyes.

It’s like a precursor to the real thing.

And I want to do this birth naturally?….OMG.

mourning what i used to loathe

Back in Georgia, Tim and I used to have this…tradition, we’ll call it.

It didn’t happen every week, but it may as well have because this is how I will always remember Friday nights after a long week at work.

Inevitably, Fridays meant neither of us had the desire or the energy to cook anything for dinner so, instead of slugging through the process, we’d usually meet somewhere near the house to have dinner.

More often than not, I’d call Tim to let him know I was leaving and then, because he worked two miles away from the house (I know. Not fair), he’d meet meet at a restaurant we agreed upon instead of us both going home first.

I’d be famished and ready to kill somebody by the time I made it there, thanks to the horrendously famous Friday traffic in Atlanta.

We used to make fun of ourselves, wondering if people thought we were cheating on our spouses because we met at the restaurant in different cars and both had wedding rings on…anyhow.

It was almost always Longhorn Steakhouse.

There weren’t many options out where we lived and this – along with Jim n Nicks and a pizza place called Amici’s – were the ones we seemed to agree on more often than not.

After sitting down, we’d both just expel everything that was driving us crazy about work.

We’d both feel better afterwards. Well, I felt better. I’m assuming Tim did, too.

Sometimes we would stop at this frozen yogurt place on the way home. It was kind of like a one-off Pink Berry type place. I don’t even remember the real name of it because I always called it “Confetti’s.” I have no idea why…just something I did once and it stuck.

Once we were home, we’d veg out on the couch and watch the TV shows we had recorded during the week that we didn’t have time to watch until we started falling asleep. Then we’d make our way up to bed.

This didn’t happen EVERY Friday…but that’s how I remember them. Exhausted. Mentally worn down. Vent session and salad at Longhorns.

It was Friday.

It was comforting.

Granted, at the time, I would have given anything to *not* have to feel that way at the end of every week. I wanted to be somewhere else. I’d moan and complain and beg to be anywhere else but where we lived. I didn’t want to feel so stressed out over my job.

Never in my wildest imagination did I think I’d MISS those Friday nights.

But I do.

Maybe it’s because I know Tim and I will never have a Friday night like that ever again, especially once the sprout is here.

It’s hard to know you are going to have to let go of what you’ve always had…knowing your life will never be the same again. It’s hard to prepare for that…to wrap your head around it…to accept it willingly and with a smile on your face.

I love Tim and me.

I’m going to miss those days where it was “just us.”

It’s really difficult to let go of that life…I can see it slowly slipping away as the days tick closer to the arrival of the sprout.

No longer will life be simple…just the two of us…

I know it will be all that and much, much more with the sprout. I know life will be more fulfilling and full of love with the sprout.

I know it will.

I’m just having a hard time seeing it right now.

the “big” night (or: more about Tim’s job)

Let’s talk about Thursday night.

Dinner.

Nice Italian restaurant.

Just Tim, me….and thirty of his cohorts from work – including his boss – all flown in from around the country for a weeklong meeting.

Everyone in a contained space – a wine cellar – for dinner.

I was the sole spouse.

This dinner was the first time I’ve ever gone to something like this. The only reason I was there, really, was to meet everyone else. I mean, sure, I’ve attended holiday parties and events where *all* spouses and significant others were welcomed, but this was a completely different kind of function. This was like, where, when your spouse (or you) are interviewing for some super big whig job and the role of their significant other is so crucial that they’re interviewed, too, just to see if everyone is the right “fit” and to make sure the spouse will support their other half when their other half spends more time at work than at home…when they travel all the time…when their weekends are sometimes reduced to a few hours of quality time.

(Obviously, I’m already an old hat at this work-life-non-balance game)

Ok, so maybe it wasn’t THAT dramatic, but, that’s kind of how it felt.

I was introduced to everyone and shook so many hands that the corresponding faces mostly blur together. I spent a good ten minutes talking with Tim’s boss.

And, in typical fashion, what did I decide to do in preparation for the big night – other than buy a black dress suitable for a preggo belly that was originally $119 that I got for $29?!

(I’m totally bragging because OMG. D.E.A.L.)

I inhaled two monster sized bowls of Raisin Bran.

Why? Why do I torture myself so?

We sat at a table with Tim’s peers and his boss, listening to all of the “work talk” and other than holding in my farts all night (TMI but, seriously. Raisin Bran is a killer!), I got to see a side of Tim that I rarely experience:

Work Tim.

Work Tim is totally different from My Tim. He’s got a different tone in his voice. He speaks up when there’s a pressing issue and he wants his thoughts heard. He laughs…genuinely…he’s in that zone – the one where his guard is up but his personality still shines through.

That guard that is taken down the second he walks into the garage door every night after work, so he was in rare form, for me, at dinner.

Funny, nothing was really “off limits” while I was sitting amongst them all at the table. I guess they realize that it probably doesn’t matter what they say, I’ll probably hear about it, anyway.

Isn’t that part of my role as the supportive spouse?

Isn’t that what Tim needs? A (mostly) unbiased sounding board?

The entire night was full of interesting.

The most interesting?

The stuff that directly affected me, of course.

Every single person who would (probably) have an impact on the decision regarding how long we stay in Colorado that I spoke with – his boss, his boss’ counterpart, some other guy who is already in Toledo who is probably important somehow – all told me, completely unprompted, that in one way or another that A: Denver was temporary and B: asked if I was ready for Toledo.

Yes.

Toledo.

Ohio.

We already knew that all roads will eventually lead to Toledo, but rarely do they go in a straight line. Others in Tim’s position (the one’s who also run manufacturing plants around the country) usually end up going a round-about way, running larger plants in various places before they eventually land in Toledo.

Granted, we have no idea what is going to happen or where we’ll be next, but the conversations seemed to have a leading edge, if you know what I mean, and based on the impression I got last night, I know – for certain – that Denver is absolutely not a permanent place for us to live and that Toledo as a next stop is a high likelihood…

Only time will tell…and we all know how much I suck at patience.

Also? Totally related but completely random?

We now have a super stocked wine cabinet.

Last weekend, before the meeting started, Tim and I went shopping with some chick from Toledo in order to fill a hospitality suite at the hotel in Denver, where the meeting was taking place, with all kinds of alcohol and snacks. The hospitality suite is the place to be after dinner to…talk about manly things…I guess?

The room in general was slightly comical. There was an L-shaped couch in the main room as the sitting area, along with a few chairs scattered about.

Think: Fifteen men. One couch.

I was allowed into the man cave (plus one other female – the hospitality suite shopping chick) Thursday night after dinner. When Tim and I walked in, I was greeted to a couch full of men, chatting.

I had no idea men would agree to get so…close?

Close or not, these manly men apparently didn’t eat or drink as much as anticipated during the week, so there were cases upon cases of beer and wine and liquor left over on Friday morning – the kinds of alcohol that you’d never buy all at once because it’s so freaking expensive and that would take Tim and I at least two years to acquire.

What happened Friday morning?

A super awesome perk, a kind of, “We’re sorry you lost your husband to the planning and execution of this meeting for the last two months…”

That perk?

First dibs on all of the leftovers!

Tim and I ate breakfast at the hotel on Friday and then loaded up our cars with super expensive wine and liquor THAT I CAN’T EVEN DRINK.

Good thing wine gets better with age, right?

I really don’t know much about liquor, so hopefully it doesn’t go…sour? Rancid? Aren’t those two things the same, in a way?…I have no idea.

My brain is tired.

But my dress was sexy!

Though my hair…not…it’s up in rollers.

Don’t even ask about the look on my face…something about Raisin Bran…

***As you laugh at my ridiculous picture, I’m currently enduring our first childbirth class. SEND HAPPY JUJU!***

tim. aka the bmoc

I know that I never talk about what Tim does or anything else pertaining to his “line of work.”

Mostly because it’s all $?!!!%?#%$#^&?!!?!!??!!!!!#$$%^&@! kinds of stressful and it is usually something we both like to *not* have to think about for at least a small part of the day and writing about HIS JOB means I will have to think about it (because, duh) and Tim will have to think about it whenever he reads my blog.

This totally negates the Not Thinking About It mentality.

Anywho, I’m only kind of going to talk about it right now, mostly to explain why, when I whined about not having friends, I can’t tap into the Tim’s Job Goldmine and make nicey nicey with Tim’s co-workers’ wives.

Problem Numero Uno: Tim’s “co-workers” are all in different states, so that kind of friendship wouldn’t really be anything different than a bloggy friend, technically speaking.

At his actual, physical job location, there are no “co-workers,” if you take my meaning. And, being the Boss and the Wife of the Boss means we can’t play favoritism and we can’t do things with people from his work…unless we did something with everyone in an equal and fair manner. I’m almost more sensitive to this than Tim sometimes, because the last thing I want to happen is for anyone to think Tim is playing favorites.

He doesn’t and what’s more, he can’t.

Which, by definition, means I can’t….make nicey nicey with any wife of any person who works there because then that could potentially qualify as bad mojo…politics…”this person never gets in trouble because his wife is friends with Tim’s wife…“

You know, the basic sandbox mentality.

It exists…even at the corporate level…though no one wants to admit it.

Random, slightly related sidebar: A woman at Tim’s old job in Atlanta had him programmed into her work phone as “BMOC.”  No name. Nothing else.  Just BMOC. When her phone would ring, BMOC would pop up on the screen as the caller.

When Tim found out about his cell phone title, he thought it was hilarious (he’s too humble sometimes…though I’m not one to talk…) and when he came home from work that day he was all, “Guess what Anna calls me on her work phone?”

Me: Is this a trick question? I have no idea?….”

Tim: The BMOC

Me: The Be…wait…lemme try and work it out…the be…moc?…The be…the what?

Tim: The B-M-O-C! Not bemoc!

Me: Obviously, I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Tim: You don’t know what BMOC stands for?

Me: Do I even need to answer that?

For those of you who were completely in the dark, like me, let me bring you into the light: BMOC = big man on campus.

SO.

There is a really long winded way to say that I can’t be buddies with the BMOC’s (I still say “bemoc” in my head) work peeps.

PS: Being the BMOC and the BMOC’s wife isn’t always all that it’s cracked up to be…so if you’re ever wondering how awesome it’d be to be “the boss” and also happen to be complaining bitterly about your own BMOC (unless you are the BMOC or BWOC), just know that they’re suffering tenfold what you’re feeling and getting beaten up about it worse than you. This I promise.

the asshole inside my head

Have you updated your reader, yet? Here’s the feedburner RSS address: 
http://feeds.feedburner.com/booshy2

If not…you’re reading this…which will require an extra click to hear the latest rendition from Babs, my conscious.

you should be here, already. like, now.

What happened today? Well, today I was retarded.

And today you should be visiting booshy’s new home. Yay!

(that’s “asshole” in fabbit, i think)

First, just to clear up any *potential* rumors from yesterday’s post: No bun in the oven. I mean, really… baby + marathon = bad idea. You’ll have to guess again at my little secret that doesn’t involve a baby. I mean, if you want. It’s not like a requirement. More like something better to do when work has decided to beat you over the head with a frying pan.

Anyway…on to more pressing matters: No one told me that writing a book completely removes you from reality. I had to call Tim yesterday to try and bring me back into the here-and-now.

I was all, “Hi. It’s me.”

Tim: Annnnd?….

Me: Just needed to talk to a human who spoke English. Rabbit’s apparently don’t speak English. They speak rabbit.

Tim: You’re writing, aren’t you?

Me: No, actually, I think I was in a forest with lots of snow…talking to a rabbit or rabbit-fox…a fabbit…or a rox…something furry.

Tim: Yes, definitely writing. Well, by the way, today is Wednesday. And it isn’t cold enough to be snowing.

Me: WEDNESDAY? Shit! Wednesday is when it explodes! And temperature doesn’t matter. Snow shoots out of the tree limbs whenever it feels like it.

You see? There is no hope for me…until December 1.

I’m lost somewhere between I have no fucking clue and I have no fucking clue. Wherever the fabbits are…that’s where you can find me. And when you do, call me Secka and lead me by hand to the nearest bus station. I’ve got an emergency 8.5″x11″ laminated (thanks, honey!) poster with my address and an elastic band in my pocket. Find Gus the bus driver. He knows what to do.

I’ve decided to post pictures. To remind me that I am actually a human.

This was a sunset from the other week…from the backyard…I think.

 

I’m very sad I will not be here for Thanksgiving this year.

I will be somewhere else.

Actually, I’ll still be helplessly lost if someone doesn’t get their lazy ass up and come find me.

That’d be the right thing to do, you know.

I know Tim would probably appreciate it.

He might even send you a picture from his gallery.

Depending on my state of return, though. Cause if I come back speaking fabbit, well, then we’re all fucked.

i’m starting to think i’m a bad listener

A few Saturday’s ago, I was sitting in a comfy chair, reading “smut magazines” – as Tim calls them – I like to think of People and Us as juciy gossip…but whatever…waiting for Tim to get his haircut.

And I tuned into his conversation with Deanna, the hairstylist, and realized they were deeply engaged in conversation. Work stuff…things I hear about all the time…except…she was asking all sorts of follow-up questions and making comments about things that never even CROSSED MY MIND.

He was loving it.

Am I too close to everything to be THAT engaged in his work life? I’m starting to think I’m losing my touch. It seems I’m always off somewhere else in my head…thinking about what needs to be done or what is on my list of to do’s or if Maddie’s had dinner…

I shouldn’t do that.

I should listen, dammit.

Communication is only like, THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN A MARRIAGE.

remind me…again?

Today…is a weird day.

The first day I “officially” don’t HAVE to be somewhere at 5:30 am because, well, I don’t work at a “regular” job anymore.

My body said otherwise a t 4:30am this morning.  Coincidentally, 4:30 was also the first time Lexi woke up and needed to go outside. Which, was pretty good…considering with Maddie we were up EVERY HOUR, rushing her outside in fear of her unloading the contents of her bowels in her crate.

I guess with our second round of puppyhood…we know what kind of cry means, “I’m about to explode” versus an “I’m bored/tired/don’t know what else to do” cry.

I FEEL like I should be at work…answering a million questions and staring at a computer screen with lots of numbers and responding to emails…cause this certainly doesn’t feel like a vacation.

But, instead,  I’m sitting at the kitchen table.  Writing.  Lexi is napping in the kitchen and Maddie’s walking from one baby gate to the other, checking up on any little weird noise she makes.

The girls? They’ve disowned us.  I haven’t seen Alegre, Chloe or Gracie since yesterday afternoon.  I think Alegre is plotting their escape…as I’ve noticed a sharp decrease in the number of fuzzy mice laying around the house since last night.

And one piece of the morning I was really looking forward to…the sun…well, it rose…but behind a thick blanket of clouds.

I keep repeating to myself…over and over…I am prepared…for no sleep…and lots of boundary setting…

like just now…scolding the telltale signs of counter surfing…two paws on the cabinet.