Well, Hello.

Been a while, huh?

If there's one thing babies do, it's distract a mother's brain. And because the only time I really have to get online these days is on Scott's mobile phone when Clara falls asleep nursing and I can't, for some reason, post to blogger from it, it's inevitably been a full six months since I've posted.

Sorry about that.

I'm sick today, so this probably won't be long. I'd much rather be sleeping, but the bedroom has given me cabin fever. This is what I'm choosing to distract myself with until I sleep again. Poor me. ;)

My world has changed so much since I was here last that I wouldn't know where to start. So how about some good ol' fashioned updating, Christy-list style?

I've started working in a friend's daycare-preschool, which I was afraid I'd hate because, with few exceptions, I don't particularly care for kids. Now, I know I just had one so *GASP* how in the world can I say that out loud? Because mine defies all expectations, and is just plain cuter than any of your kids. Sorry, but it's a fact.

Anyhow, I actually really enjoy it. Even the "troublemakers" are hysterical and, surprisingly, my favorites. They're all a lot more fun than the credit I initially gave children in general. Plus, Clarabeaner's itching to play so bad, that she's trying really hard to crawl. Speaking of which,

Babies are a lot more fun when they start doing stuff. Now, she was all cute and cuddly and everything when she first showed up, but when Clara squeals and babbles like she's having a conversation with me (or her toys), it certainly breaks up the monotony of diaper, nurse, sleep. Diaper, nurse, sleep. DIAPER, NURSE, SLEEP.

She's also developing a love of throwing sweet potatoes, banging out concertos on the keyboard, and laughing at NOTHING. I mean it. Laughing for no reason. It's awesome.

Husband's gone back to school and will be finished in a year and a half. I don't know if I can really talk about what he does on a public forum like this blog, for safety reasons --

-- it's not like I think I'm so high & mighty as to actually have a stalker. But the job he'll be doing requires a certain amount of anonymity, and maybe even that he delete or falsify social media --

but he seems to really be finding his purpose in life, and I'm so happy for him. Especially since it means we can leave our current city for whichever place he finds a job. I feel so suffocated in this small town... Time for a new scene, I guess.

There are more things I'd like to touch on but I don't have time. Babe's calling for food.

Bye for now.

So.

There's time to write this because she's napping, but I don't know for how long so I'll make it quick:

I had a baby.

I'd give you the birth story (because that's what every new-mom-blogger does, right?) but I don't remember much of that day except that I could have murdered my nurse for accidentally turning my epidural off before they stitched me up, ensuring that I felt everything, and that when that @#$%! finally rolled me downstairs (eleven hours later) to the NICU to see my baby, I didn't know which baby was mine. I didn't even know what she looked like.

I'm going to spare the gory details because I'm finally in a place where I feel strong about whatever will come in the next few years, or I'm still trying to convince myself that I am, and I need to not undo that.

I will say, however, that she is the most beautiful baby you've ever seen in your life. No, really, look:

Husband & I make some beautiful babies.

Pruning Roses

Rather unsuccessfully bending over to move the compost bucket and the gravity hose, balancing gingerly in the rose bushes so as to peacefully move alongside all the bees and not be stung, and trying to haul ass out of the bushes when you realize there's a wasp nearby makes a person realize that being huge and awkward and pregnant and out-of-breath is no longer the meaningful experience they thought it to be for the last year.

All that to say: I'm done. No more pregnant. Come out of there, I command you.

I COMMAND YOU.

I'm due in a week. I constantly go back and forth between wanting her out so I can sleep a full hour again and wanting her to stay in there so I don't have to be a parent yet.

When I say "so I don't have to be a parent yet," I mean that I don't have to become completely responsible for another human being's entire exsistance. I'm excited to be a mother, except for that part. Because we all screw up our kids, and there's no garauntee mine won't be one of the worst.

I'm not digging for reassurance, so please don't feel pressured to do so in the comments. I'm just running on very little sleep and hypothesizing the pothead I may raise.

I Bet You Think I'm A Genius, Too

We agreed to house-sit for my in-laws while they're drove to some cousin-family-reuinion in another state this week (because, let's be honest: (a) the one thing baby bump websites never tell you to pack in your bag for the hospital is a checkbook, and (b) my Mother-in-law seriously knows how to buy the best instant oatmeal).

Last night, after running home to get the dog's medicine (of course we forgot it) and some burgers to barbeque (we forgot those, too), we came back over for the night.

(Shoot, I just realized I forgot my curling iron... Sensing a theme here? $%#@!.)

Anyhow.

The in-laws have a fence to thier driveway that everybody has to keep closed because thier dog Zach, as well as ours (Buddy), would go exploring the neighborhood if given the option. Husband puts the car in park and walks up the drive to close said gate and I reach over, turning the ignition to "accesories" because it's only ninety out but also one of those days where it feels like the sun is following you around, breathing on your neck -- I don't want to be closed up in the car with the heat while trying to climb my 38-weeks-pregnant ass out. It takes a good couple minutes.

The tangents today, my god.

I throw the box of veggies on the roof of the car, as well as my toiletry bag. I stick my right foot on the pavement, followed by my oversized purse with overnight clothes in it, and finally my left foot. Now I can use my two free hands to hoist myself out.

Yes, the play-by-play is nessecary to the story.

Just as I'm finally mastering a standing position, Husband gets back to the car. We let Buddy out to play with Zach, gather up all our crap, and head inside.

Notice what we forgot?

I didn't either. Not until this morning, when Husband is about to leave for work at 6:30 a.m.

H: "Do you know where the keys are?"
Me: "Are they with [the pile of a bajillion other keys in this house]?"
H: No, I looked. Did I have them last, or did you?
Me: I dunno, but we'd better find them fast or you'll be late.
H: So we got here yesterday, I pulled the keys out and put them in my pocket, went to close the gate...
Me: Shit.
H: What?
Me: That's not what you did. That's what you usually do. Shit, shit, shit.

I'm extremely lucky that his dad has a battery charger. I'm freaked out that now that it won't work, and we'll have to spend hospital-visit-money on a new battery, because I don't know much about cars but batteries I've got a good idea on, and I'm thinking the two hour max won't save this sucker.

Yay.

In Case You Were Wondering:

Do you ever write a substantially awesome blog post and love it? Patting yourself on the back every time you log in to check stats or read a comment?

And then after about a month you really just want to write about the sale where you bought something marked down by 19999.906677%, but the thought of some random stranger happening across your blog and seeing the crappy sale post instead of the quality post first and running away stops you?

That's the truth behind why I post so little right now. I love my "Girls Don't Use Power Tools" entry. I hate that lately, all I've wanted to tell you people about is the awesome barbeque chicken I had on Saturday.

If I disappear for a while after a rally cry, that's why. In case you were wondering.

Girls Don't Use Power Tools.

I'm covered in green paint molecules and I haven't showered them off yet because it makes me feel powerful.

Statistically speaking, Baby Girl won't marry until she's near or just past thirty, if at all. That's a lot o' years to be self sufficient. What kind of favor would I be doing my little girl by teaching her that there are things a woman does for herself, and other things she lets a man do for her?

Don't get me wrong, ladies. Husband is gorgeous when getting sweaty in a white tee because he's building me some furniture or doing yard work. Humina, humina -- the Honey-Do List has it's place.

But how many times did I see a fun do-it-yourself project on TLC in my early twenties that looked unbearably easy, until they used a power tool I had never heard of, or even one that I did recognize but still didn't know how to use? How many little projects did I actually start and then give up on because I didn't know how to plan out my materials?

So, so many. I daydreamed for years about simple benches for my dining room, gigantic wall art leaning on floating shelves above the couch, and homemade chandeliers. Instead I settled for run-of-the-mill, kitchsy (gag) chairs, blank walls and the 70's style hung fixtures that come in every single rental, ever. When I got married, I bothered Husband to make these things for me. Watching him do it was fun, yes. But the drawbacks to having someone else do your labor-intense projects for you include the other person not quite knowing your vision, and having to be grateful for whatever the turn out because this person just used their valuable time to create something nice for you. I've been lucky in that we communicate fairly well, but there have still been a few projects I wished I could have done myself.

And then I wonder. Why didn't I? Was I just lazy?

Yes, and no.

Yes, in that I came up with every excuse in the book to avoid the manual labor: I don't want to buy the supplies; I don't know how to make it come out perfectly; I don't know anyone who would let me borrow a paint brush for the week; I don't like cleaning paintbrushes (though who does?). But no, I wasn't just lazy. I also had that nagging little voice in the back of my head saying "Girls don't use power tools."

I could use this post to go off on a rant about that Girls Don't Do XYZ Voice we're all raised with (or go out into the world and for some reason allow people teach us) and then have to overcome, but if I'm totally honest with you, I'm much more concerned -- in this post -- with what I'm exampling to my daughter when I leave all the heavy lifting to her father.

So this weekend I learned how to use the drill to remove the bolts and get my seats out of the car in order to clean under them (and they needed it, UGH). When I'm not almost-nine-months pregnant I'll learn to change my oil and rotate my tires. Today, and every day until it's finished because it's kind of taking forever, I'm power-sanding the dirt and paint off a table for the bathroom. I'll repaint it a sassier green when I'm finished, too.

I'll save the paint-brush cleaning for Husband, though. He knows how to do that exceptionally well, being an artist and everything.

A Little Vent, A Little Nomnoms.

I had a few more horrendous run-ins with Blackboard over the last two weeks of the semester, but I'm done feeling all ragey about it because none of those situations stopped me from getting straight A's -- AGAIN.

YEAH. THAT'S RIGHT. AGAIN.

They could have been higher A's, but at this point I don't care anymore. My GPA is beautiful.

Did you know that a woman carries about fifty percent more blood than normal during her last trimester? So when you see a smiling pregnant lady, eating a cookie, don't assume her face is swollen because that's the last of the twenty other cookies she's had today.

Because we can see it on your face, and hormones make it impossible not to eat you whole.

That would really bloat us, eating a person. If you're that concerned, stop assuming and therefore save us from having to make potatoes as a side dish to you. Thanks.

And by the way,

the first person to make weight comments about my little girl will immediately lose access to her. Period. And I sense them coming.

I need to move to an area that's a little less vain. I know they exsist. Just where they exsist and are also somewhere I'd like to reside, I just don't know. But I have to do something to save my little girl from a complex about her looks before she's zero years old.