Just a couple of things

BEARDS
Can the whole of the male species get together and have a chat about knocking it off with this beard nonsense?  (Excuse me ladies who like a rugged-looking man. I apologize for stepping on your toes, but I cannot handle it anymore).  

I just want my clean-shaven fiance back, but he seems to have the impression that it is perfectly fine to go weeks without shaving.  I have a sneaking suspicion it is because the rest of the male population has decided: shaving is work.  Work is bothersome.  Out with shaving!  Either knock it off or I'm calling a meeting of women to discuss leg hair (shaving is work.  work is bothersome.  out with shaving!  catch my drift?)

Exactly

DRIVING
Now, I can't speak for the rest of the country, but in Texas, driving has gotten bad (okay, worse).  I'm flabbergasted at the lack of respect for the yield sign.  People are coming off the highway at 60 mph and trying to slow down to merge into much slower traffic.  The slower traffic is supposed to look at that upside triangle that says YIELD and know "oh, hey, people are coming off the highway and probably want to get home to their families instead of dodging and weaving and having collisions with my self-involved ass, so maybe I should slow down and let them get on the frontage road safely."  But they don't.  They just keep driving, and if you are coming off the highway, well, you figure it out.  I have taken a little survey to make sure that I'm not just pissed off because I grew up in a state of far superior drivers (I'm sorry, but it's true), and the Texans seem to agree with me that it is out of hand.  So, now you know it's bad.

Also, (and this is just something that I think irks me as a southerner) what happened to the "thank you" wave?  I'm pretty much a pushover in traffic.  You put on your blinker?  I'll let you over.  That simple.  But, you know, it's kind of nice for you to then acknowledge that I did you that solid.  NO ONE DOES THIS ANYMORE.  Why?  No, seriously, I demand an explanation.  It requires very little effort to just hold up your hand to say, "I appreciate you letting me into traffic instead of making me sit on the side of the road praying that someone would let me get in so I can get where I'm going."  Because, honestly, have you tried to merge in this city?  Or change lanes?  No one is going to help you out.  You stumbled upon the nicest driver in all of Dallas, and you can't even be like, "that was super weird that someone was just nice to me on the road here.  Maybe I'll give a little wave."  Nope, you just want to make me resent all of you and turn into another selfish, entitled Texas driver.

I realize I've probably just offended half the people I know with this post, but at least you know I will tell you your faults to your face (or over the internet) and not lie and tell you that your beard is fabulous (it's not) and that I think you are an excellent driver (you aren't).

You're welcome for that.

Getting it right

Planning our wedding took me back to Pinterest. I hadn't been on the site in months, and now it has become my go-to website when I have time to kill.

There is something about the perfect storm that is being pregnant and being engaged and browsing Pinterest that is assaulting my emotions. "Best songs for your father-daughter" dance almost did me in and with that came the notion that my grandmother isn't going to be there either.

Maybe you are thinking "it's your third marriage - what's the big deal?" And that is fair.

The thing is, it IS a big deal because Jimmy should have been my first marriage. He is the only person in the 15 years since I started dating who actually makes sense for me. And maybe I wouldn't know that had I not made those first two mistakes. What I do know is that I always questioned whether or not I had listened to God in the slightest when it came to Shane and Michael. Before, during, and after those marriages.

Right now, I KNOW I'm doing the right thing.

When we first got engaged, I went back and forth about whether or not to have a wedding. "It's my third marriage. What will everyone think?"

And then I sat down and thought and came to the conclusion that what matters is not what anyone thinks but what feels right to me.

A wedding is a celebration of the decision two people have made to commit to one another. And, frankly, I want to celebrate everything about my relationship with Jimmy.  Our relationship and the happiness it brings to us is something I am excited to share with our family and friends.

Jimmy and I have both overcome so many things in our lives - things that would have annihilated some people. Our loved ones have watched us make wrong turns and bad choices. Stood helplessly watching while our lives for one reason or another collided with heartache and tragedy. These people who love us and see the good in us probably wondering if we'd ever get it right.

And when Jimmy and I stumbled upon one another, we were both at the tail end of cleaning up the messes we had made of our lives. Overcoming the heartache inflicted on us by people we had loved. We were each at a place of beginning. A place of starting over. A place of taking what we had learned and applying it in order to be better and have more.

And somehow when we each started down that road of beginning, we found that our individual roads intersected and then merged into one. We found that the journey was much better with each other as companions. That it made the bumps along the way less harsh if we held hands.

This love was a divine accident, and that is absolutely something worth celebrating.

So, that is why it is a big deal. That is why I wish my father and grandmother could be there. To see me finally get it right and celebrate my true happiness, true joy, true love.

Although I cannot make that happen, I can and will surround myself with as many of the people as I can who have cheered me on, held my hand, encouraged, and loved me through those parts of my life where I was trying so hard but getting it all wrong.

And I will beam at them through my tears of joy as they share in the celebration of me finally getting it right.

Nesting

Lest you think nesting is not a real thing, let me just inform you that I got out of bed at 7:30 yesterday morning (I was off work and the boys were still with their dad) and started a marathon of cleaning, organizing, and doing laundry that did not end until I went to bed at 9:45 last night.

This happens to me every pregnancy without fail, and thank God.  Seriously.  If it wasn’t for this little last minute, panicky burst of energy coming over me out of the blue, I don’t think any of my children would have had a stitch of clothing to wear when they were born.

It always causes me to do weird things I’ve been putting off as well – like go through 4 years of little boy clothes in search of things to give to someone who is about to have a little boy.  My aunt asked me to do this about 3 months ago, but every time I have thought about doing it, I have gotten overwhelmed and found something else (anything else) to do (don’t worry, she’s due after me – I’m not a total asshole).  You have absolutely no idea the amount of clothing accumulated when a person has two children, is a shopaholic and has a shopaholic mother and aunt.  So far, new baby has four boxes of clothes, blankets, bibs, etc.  I’m not done collecting for new baby.  Ran out of time. 

That is what I was doing between washing Vivian’s clothes/blankets (shopaholics made that a fun task too) and all the normal laundry that has accumulated in the midst of my being sick/pregnant and perpetually tired/lazy.  And when that wasn’t going on, I was organizing everyone’s bedrooms and washing new bottles and organizing the garage.  Just pure randomness.

I had a little hmmm, could I be going into labor??? moment on Sunday (no, I didn’t go to the hospital, smart ass).  And apparently my body/brain decided enough was enough on the procrastinating.  So, when Jimmy forgot everything and came back home half a dozen times yesterday morning before going to work, my brain switched on and said, “GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!”

I’m still not done (like, our bag still is not packed, and I really don’t want to have to rely on Jimmy to do that should I actually go into labor).  The nursery still isn’t 100% together, but we do have an assembled crib and some teeny diapers and some formula (I’m sorry but I cannot hear your tsk-tsking about me not breastfeeding because I have tried valiantly with 2 children, failed both times, and flat out refuse to put myself or Vivian through it) and some receiving blankets and some bottles and some clean clothes.

What I’m trying to say is: a rather large dent has been made in the to do list.  Yay nesting!

As far as my neurosis is going, I’m now having frequent anxiety about all the tubal-ligation-screwing-up-women’s-hormones horror stories I’ve been blessed to hear recently (and – okay – I kind of Googled it after the personal stories started, and if someone could just take away my Google access, that would be greeeeeeeeeeeat).  I’m severely concerned considering I just got my anxiety under control a little more than a year ago, and the thought of traveling back down that path (or a worse path – God forbid) makes me want to cry or scream or do both simultaneously.  Once again, I’m left to pray.

So, that’s pretty much the gist of where I am on the almost baby time front.

Two weeks, three days.  Woo hoo!!!

Officially, official

As you may have seen on Instagram, it is officially official (i.e. Jimmy and I are officially engaged).

Friday evening, something seemed off when Jimmy came home from work.  He usually calls and lets me know he is headed that way, but Friday he just came through the door unexpectedly.

Normally he puts his stuff down and heads upstairs to shower and then comes down to eat.  Instead, he spent a good 45 minutes pacing around the kitchen talking ninety to nothing about work and fidgeting while I sat on the couch thinking he sure was in a weird mood.  At one point, he blurted out, “I’m going to have a glass of wine if you don’t mind?”  I laughed at him because he doesn't like wine, but it was the only alcoholic beverage in the house, and I assumed he’d had a rough day or what not.  “Yeah, sure, I don’t care.”

Three glasses of wine later, he worked his way into the living room and stood slightly behind me and said this, “So, I come home from work every day, and I am filthy, and I itch, and I smell terrible…”  I turned around laughing to look at him like he was nuts and said, “oooookay…” and that is when he got down on one knee and produced a ring and said, “but will you marry me anyway?”

It was adorable, and I couldn't stop giggling at him once it all came together for me.  It was so cute to me that he had been so nervous about asking a question he already knew the answer to.

He informed me that 1. He was late getting home because he had left work and went to pick up my ring.  That is also why he didn't call.  He was worried I was going to figure out what he was up to before he could get home.  2.  He had drank the wine because he was so incredibly nervous and wanted some liquid courage.  3.  He had asked in that manner because he just did not know what to do to surprise me and wanted to catch me off guard.  He had tried to figure out my Pinterest password to see if he could get ideas from there because he wanted it to be special for me, but he couldn't figure it out and gave up.  (I’m not surprised.  I don’t know what it is either.)

All in all, I love the memory.  I adore how boyishly nervous he was.  I love that he tried so hard to surprise me.  I love him to pieces, and I so look forward to spending my life with him.

Get your Cowboy boots ready.  We’ll be gettin hitched in August!

Torn

So, I'm 3.5 weeks from having this baby, and I am awash with mixed emotions.

Firstly, there is fear.  How are the boys going to handle this?  How am I going to handle the second straight year of sleep deprivation, teething, and spit up?  The laundry.  I mean, should I just give up on the laundry after she's born?  Just burn it all and buy new once a month?  (J/K....mostly).  How do I take three kids to Target?  How do I manage the stairs with Gavin and Vivian?  How horribly terrible is maternity leave with a one year old and a newborn going to be?  And, of course, that damn epidural.  I pray nightly that I won't jump and that they won't have to do it more than once.

Two nights ago I dreamed that my doctor forgot to tie my tubes, and I had a complete and total meltdown about it.  So, I feel even more confident in my decision since I wasn't even slightly relieved in my sub conscience.  I told my doctor about my dream and encouraged her not to forget.  She laughed at me.

Secondly, there is an emotion I can't quite figure out how to name.  I don't want to call it sadness because I am not sad in the least about meeting my darling daughter.  But I am going to miss work (please stop rolling your eyes at me).  My job can be all things hard, stressful, frustrating, anger-inducing, and sometimes even boring. But mostly I like coming to work.  I like interacting with my co-workers.  I like what I do (most of the time).  I like the satisfaction I get in doing certain things well.  I like using my brain to figure out complex things.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to miss the drive or the days when it is boring or entering my billing or the sometimes overwhelming stress, but I am going to miss working.

Thirdly, I feel unready/behind/ill-prepared.  I look back at just how prepared I was for Gavin at this stage and am astounded by how not prepared I am for Vivian.  People keep talking about me going into labor, which I guess at this point is technically possible, but I'm just behaving as if I have all the time in the world.  All those contractions that sent me running to the hospital once a week with Gavin?  I just ignore them now and go to bed.  My motto has become: if it's labor, eventually it will wake me up in screaming pain, and then I will involve the professionals and deal with it. 

Her crib?  Not even out of the box.  Her nursery?  Totally empty (save for the box full of un-assembled crib).  Our bag?  Not packed.  Her clothes?  Not washed (but you already knew that, didn't you?).  Her come home outfit?  Not purchased.  Carseat?  Not installed.  Newborn diapers and such?  Not purchased.  Her changing table?  Needs painting.  Her dresser?  Not even at my house.  Coverage at work?  Not determined.  

I keep telling myself, "I'll work on all of that this weekend" and then the weekend comes and goes and nothing is accomplished.  So, the current plan is to work on it this weekend...

Lastly, there is obviously an exorbitant amount of excitement.  I envision being in the OR and hearing her cry for the first time, seeing Jimmy holding her, holding her myself - and happy tears (obvi).  I cannot wait for all of that.  I cannot wait to see what she looks like and to snuggle her and set out on this journey of raising her with a man I am so proud to have as the father of my daughter.  

Because I've already done this before, I know it all comes together.  I know everything gets done and that everyone in the house adjusts to having one more person.  I know that sleep deprivation and teething and spit up eventually end, and they are survivable.  And mostly I know that this is the very last time I get to do any of this.  And I honestly think that is why I am not in a hurry to get ready for it.  Because I know just how fast it is going to fly by.  Just how soon that first birthday is going to be here.  Just how much I am going to ache for that first everything once I can never experience it again.  

And so I am going to linger and savor it and try with all my might to enjoy every minute - even the minutes when I want to scream and pull my hair out and day drink (don't tell me you have never had the fleeting thought).

So, here is to round three closing in on me.  Woosah...

I went to the Twilight Zone

I'm afraid this is going to come off as me being all "look at me!" but I'm honestly just telling you a story that I find so weird it's funny.

Jimmy and I decided we wanted pot roast for dinner last night way too late to actually make pot roast.

Unbeknownst to me, Twin Peaks has killer pot roast.  Of course Jimmy knew because he's male.

Anyway, we settled (actually, he sort of insisted) on Twin Peaks, and I was elected to go pick up dinner.

Me: "I'm going to feel funny waddling into that place all pregnant."
Jimmy: "If you get hit on, tell them I'll kill them."
Me: *laughs hysterically as I'm 8.5 months pregnant* "yeah, I don't see anyone hitting on me over the 22 year old half naked chicks with flat stomachs, but I appreciate the vote of confidence."
Jimmy: "Oh, I do."

And I went on about my day thinking it was adorable that he was either delusional or hell bent on making me feel good about myself in my whaleish state.

I got to Twin Peaks and tried to get the hostess to grab my order and take my money because really five feet into the place was enough to make me feel self-conscious, but she insisted I go to the bar.  Fun!

I waddled over to the bar where all of the occupied barstools were filled with males drinking beer and ogling the half-naked woman behind the bar.  All was as I expected.  I found an empty spot at the bar and stood waiting patiently to be acknowledged.

The half naked woman walked past me twice without acknowledging me.  I sighed audibly attracting the attention of the man to my right.

And then the man to my right nodded to the barstool next to him and said, "you can sit down here by me if you want" and winked at me.  It most definitely came across as him hitting on me/being a decidedly skeevy person.

All I could think was, Is this really happening? I mean how long must a person drink before he either doesn't notice a woman is five minutes from giving birth or doesn't care?  Also, I sport a black titanium wedding band on my left ring finger to cover up an ill-advised tattoo.  (But then I already know from experience that some people care absolutely nothing about other people's relationships.)

I mentioned back in October that I got hit on at the fair.  But I was barely showing, and the guy was working at a food stand and I'm very short so it is very likely couldn't see my stomach.  I'm not a gal who gets hit on very often, so that was actually kind of flattering.

This was not flattering.  It was just bizarre and made me concerned for humanity as a whole.  All I knew to do was look at him like he was a lunatic and go back to searching for a club to whack over the bartender's head so I could get her attention, get my food, and get the hell out of there.

The bartender walked past me two more times before I got fed up with the whole situation.  (And I have no idea where she was walking to and from because I never saw her take an order or a payment or provide a drink.  Just aimless meandering.)

Finally, I yelled "Hey!" and then coated my face in a syrupy smile.  I'm not lying to you when I say she looked startled by the fact that I was standing there in the same spot I had been for at least a good, solid five minutes.  She smiled sweetly, "hi.  Do you have a to go order?" like she had not walked past me a bajillion times.  I literally think she has trained herself to not see women.  


What I had expected to happen was that I would not attract one passing glance from a single male in the place and that the women working there would be amused by me but courteous and professional and possibly even feel sorry for me and get me in and out of there quickly.

Nothing was as it should have been in that place.

There is only one possible explanation.  Twin Peaks is the twilight zone.  But they really do have good pot roast.

Soooooooo, how'd not having the kids for ten forevers go?

So, some things about the boys being gone:

1. My commute should actually only be 40 minutes.  I learned that because I didn't have to drive through all of the whole city to drop off two children every day last week.  Instead, I drove straight to work.  40 minutes.  Every day.  Not two hours.  1/4 tank of gas left at the end of the week.  Not an entire tank of gas gone in 4 days.  (Sigh).

2. I was part productive, part catch up on Vampire Diaries.  Some days I came home and was all, "let's tackle this laundry!"  Other days I was all, "Let's sit on the couch and eat Doritos for dinner and watch horrible teenage TV!"  That was quite enjoyable.

3.  Omg, I misssssssssssssssssssssssss sleeping.  I got to do so much more of it when no one was there to wake up screaming in the middle of the night or at 5 am.  And I got to sleep in an extra hour because (as I already mentioned) there was no 2 hour commute.  There were even naps, you guys.  Like, in the middle of the week after I got home from work naps.  I forgot about those, and they are delightful.

4. My kids (read: Silas) actually missed me.  I maybe stopped by to see them mid-week and was greeted with, "Mom, I'm going to McDonald's, and then I'm coming home to your house." To which I replied, "I don't think you're coming home just yet, bud." To which he replied, "But I want to!!!" To which my heart replied by melting into a puddle.

I have to admit that the 9 day break was good for all of us.  And I have to admit that because round about 14 hours after getting the boys back, Silas was diagnosed with strep, and Gavin was diagnosed with two ear infections and a viral infection, and I was subsequently diagnosed with a viral infection.  So, you know, we were sort of stuck in the house together feeling like crap.  And no one yelled.  What I mean is that I didn't yell.  They yell all the time because they are children and find it amusing to be loud.  I didn't lose my patience.  Not even when I had to call the pediatrician twice and go to CVS three times in order to get Gavin's medicine sorted out.  Nor when I nearly fainted at their doctor's office and Gavin totally lost it because they made me lie down and a stranger had him.  Nor when Silas whined incessantly about all of the things and made me go up and down our stupid steps 40-11 times fetching things for him.

The break put me back in a place where I was not at my complete and total wits end.  I can't say enough about how much Jimmy helps me, but he has not been able to help in quite some time because he works, like, 14 hour days a lot and doesn't get home until well after the kids are asleep.  So, doing the whole full time job, taking care of the house, wrangling two kids thing day in and day out gets taxing - you're probably a parent, you probably already know that.  Add being 48 months pregnant to that equation, and I'm sure you can conjure up a mental image of my sanity level most days. (hint: it ain't pretty).

Remember when I was all, "maybe I'll be a little more ready to evict by 34 weeks, but right now I'm just not"?  Yes, well, yesterday was 34 weeks, and GET OUT!  GET OUT!  GET OUT! Vivian Grace, get. out.  Well, not literally because I'm not interested in her being a little preemie, but this next 30 days is more than welcome to just rush along.

So, in conclusion, while I don't want my children gone that long very often (and I'm still not cool with the possibility of an entire freaking month during the summer), and I missed them so much it was painful, it was good for us.  

People keep telling me I'll be rethinking my stance on the month in the summer when Vivian gets here - you know because I'm already crazy cakes now with two of them.  

I guess I'll find out in 4 weeks and two days.