More or Less...

Hrm.

My sparkle disco holiday sweater stretched over my 39-week gone girthiness, or-well-the complete opposite of that. (I do not wish to be googled by perverts, so I'm not spelling out "pregnant in underwear" here. Ah-balls.)

I'll leave it up to you to decide which is more or less internet-appropriate. At this point, I really am too distracted by my aching areas and consumed with the urge to thrash around moaning about them to tell the difference or have any modicum of taste regarding the subject.

Should the heinousness of either my sequins or bulging flesh bring you nausea or hilarity, you're welcome/I apologize. Whichever you deem needful. I'll be over here praying for the baby to come this year, which gives him about 32 hours.

Here that, Fuzzwolf? Go. Ok, now. Go.

GO!

Home For the Holidays

Despite all obstacles, we've done it. We are now homeowners. There was even-n0 shit-a flat tire on our car when we left the house to go to the closing. Psh. Like that was going to stop us. As. If. We would have hijacked a Santa-bearing fire truck and driven that all the way to our lawyer's office, if we had to.

This past week has been a whirlwind-especially the past three days. Following the marathon signing-fest on Thursday, there was all of the Christmas cheer to attend-both of our moms' places, with Christmas morning with a totally psyched and over-sugared four year-old sandwiched in between.

And so....the final two items are now checked off the to-do list.

With the current inhabitant of my guts taking up most of the room, I'm pretty amazed at how much I did eat. (Oh, the ham. Everywhere we went-ham. Right now? We are making ham and bean soup.) I limited my "drink" to one spiked nog and one glass of red wine, but holy balls, I enjoyed them. I also got in my own nap as soon as humanly possible.

I hope your holiday was a good one. Ours, for the first time in our home, was a peaceful, simple, gorgeous start to living happily ever after.

Imminent

Ok, folks, this may be it.

IT.

Not the baby. He's still safe in the EZ bake cooker til after New Year's Eve. Plus, we don't call him IT. What's wrong with you? His name is Fuzzwolf.

The other thing. The house. We have a closing set for tomorrow at 4. There are still, oh, three pending issues that could run the whole thing off the road, but I am not daunted.

I don't want to pre-count any chickens, but we could actually have a house for Christmas! Since we basically have pulled it out of our asses, it should fit in the kids' stockings, right? And they will appreciate it, right? (More on how Christmas this year is thoughtful/cheap/disappointing for kids, heavy on the framed pictures and hand knits-later.)

I have been warming my giant-but-still-cute bum by the light of my email since Saturday, batting answers and files (57 files) back to lawyers and mortgage people and whatnot, making sure everything is covered. It would be funny how much of a nightmare this purchase has been, if it wasn't for the actual recurring nightmares, or the insane tension-induced insomnia/facial tics, or the one time with the shouting over barn paint three shades too yellow with the crying and the throwing things.

Wait, that was actually funny.

"I'm guess I'm just dumber than a bucket of paint, okay?? *sniff* DUMBER!"
"NO you're NOT, but HOW did this HAPPEN?"
"Why does it MATTER? *hiccupsniff* FortheloveofGODwhydoesitMATTER?!"
"It's not your fault! It's PAINT!"
"Yes it is! It's all my dumb paint-bucket-head fault *sob sob sob*"

This will happen. Tomorrow, it will be two lawyers, a buyer, a seller, and me, a nine-months preggo bitch with an actual eye twitch who has very recently taken herself off anti-depressants, all crammed in a room together.

Say a prayer for us, k?
Also, light a candle for anyone dumb enough to try to get in my way to stop it all now...

The Kids Are...

Worrisome.

Terrible sleep last night.

Fire trucks.

Yodeling cats galumphing through the house.

Dreams of hurt children. Running to get them out of the ball pit.

Wendy, shrieking out of her bed and into ours.

Climbing over the kid and the man-have to pee again and again and again and again...

This one is different from the last one. Quieter. He doesn't tell me as much about himself as she did, with her constantly climbing jabbing insisting limbs (that didn't quit once she left my body) but I'm different too. A little older and more broken-in. Muscles and joints less interested in warping into new shapes.

Ridiculous to keep kick-counts over days already full of feeding the family, crying, laughing, candy land, laundry, lawyers, library trips, emailing, errands-

-then abruptly realizing, in the semi-dark, head on the pillow, trucks and cats and Carl's sinuses groaning in my ears, that I HAVE NO IDEA when it was when the baby last said hello.

awakenowreadytocount-OKGO.

tick.
tick.
tick.
doesn't kick. doesn't kick.
hospitals tests who do I call what do I do if-tick tick tick-nothing-tick-tick-

-kick.
*breathe*
-kick
*breathe*
-roll. kick. (all right?)

All right.

I love you. I'm glad you're getting more sleep than I am. Thank you for humoring your mom. I love you.

The Kids Are-

All right, birthday party this past weekend. Three kids, two babies, one homemade chocolate cake, and a princess castle. Good times and tea parties had by all.

Wendy insisted that the party be a surprise (even though she had already dictated all details of said party), so we did that too. Turns out that it is just as easy to distract and surprise a four year-old as it is a three year-old. Even Wendy, Cruise-Director-of-Us-All (love her and despair), can be tricked into a sudden, startling shower of balloons and "surprise!" at her party she is already attending.

Carl brought me flowers, wisely recognizing that Wendy's birthday is in fact, a very special day for me too.

This bouquet is composed mostly of celebrate-the-day-motherhood-changed-your-life-forever wildflowers, with one yay!-another-year-without-suffering-a-complete-break-with-reality rose.

Happy Birthday, Wendy. Words cannot describe how many intense and magnificent ways that you have changed our world. We love you!

I Think She's Been Talking to My Dad on the Sly

Wendy: Have you ever gotten married, mom?

Mo: No.

Wendy: Why not? You get a nice dress. And flowers. With cake.

Mo: Who do you think I should get married to?

***audible pause, thick with incredulous, awkward, and am-I-really-the-one-to-break-this-to-you****

Wendy: (carefully not condescending, patting my hand) Well....probably Daddy.