Listen alla y'all

Today, I am naming a line of household garment care appliances. Finding and combining words about trust and value and the desire to be the kind of woman to whom pressed drapes and tablecloths are a given. I'm a little out of my element. The only iron I have ever owned is the one I own now, and it was left behind by a previous tenant in a house I rented in 1998. A discolored, renegade college iron. Even then, it was somebody's mom's old cast-off. I'm not getting very far. I am skilled at assassinating the creative process. Sabotage.

Why do I do this? I babystep into the word-world, do some research, find some images that get me to that place where people press (shit, OWN) tablecloths. The lines get wavy and I get into that person's head, start to understand how "Classic" differs from "Essential," how that feels, what combinations of words resonate, fit, complement. And just when I start to see the words and feel them and they have color and weight and texture to me, and they start to interact and kick up some good homekeeping-vibe momentum, I kick out a word. And another word. And they kind of work, no, wait, rearranged they COULD work, and I step back and take a look and say, "that might just be okay." And then I say, "That is a damn fine start." And what I should say next would be something like, "now what if..." but instead, my brain says, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!" and I do this ultra-quick zoom-out thing, and if you were sitting here I'd make the noise that I think goes with it, and make some wild gestures, but you're not here, so imagine the face you would make if you were asleep and you woke up and realized you were driving down the interstate, because that's the face my brain makes. I HAVE to check email! I HAVE to check facebook! I HAVE to call the pediatrician, HAVE to make a note to call the countertop guy! And we should have a pumpkin party for Birdy's fourth! And I need to look up the Swine Flu! It's like trying to fall asleep and waking up suddenly every time you start dreaming. It is not a good way to work. And it's not getting any irons named.

Looks like we're going with "the Flattenah."

5:25 Sunday afternoon:

Reclining on the couch with one foot on the ottoman and my belly hanging out of my shirt, talking to Bird about spiders and letting the dog lick a pile of potato chip crumbs from my already-filthy pants.

And that ends our latest trip to Indiana.

Pothole O'Reilly

Those were my two wavy words to type when I ordered my 7,000th bridal shower gift of the summer on Amazon. Pothole O'Reilly. Sounds like a scruffy little pickpocket.

I was explaining this at the dinner table, and Bird said, "who is Paco O'Reilly?" And yeah, even better.

Bird has been doing this weird exaggerated Southern accent lately, and I can't decide if I love it for its cleverness and her ability to notice and modify language, or if I hate it because it's obnoxious and loud and usually repetitive. Both, I guess.

I'm in the middle of a huge project at work. A project which involves a lot of pressure, and a deadline, and a lot of research. And truthfully, I should be at the END of this project, but I have grown to dislike it very much and spend a lot of my work time searching for distraction. Like the Seinfeld episode where George and Jerry sit down to write the pilot. In any case. This project. Kicking my lazy, pregnant ass all over the room.

Things we have recently prepared and liked, which involve minimal stove time: Mango Avocado Rolls, Edamame Hummus. Yum on both. Go try.

Currently reading: Random Family by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc. The library sent an email saying the book was overdue. So I went online to renew it, naturally. And it is ON HOLD for another patron, and therefore un-renewable. But! I am loving this book, in a sad and curious way, so I keep making reading promises and making more headway, racing to finish and return just a little bit late. This is my public apology to the next reader: I do hope you are a hopeful and disorganized library patron like me, that you use the hold list as more of a wish list, and that you will be pleasantly surprised to learn that it's your turn, instead of sitting in your reading chair in the dark all alone, tapping your fingertips on the table until I'm done. Because dammit, I have to finish this book.

Vocabulary Police, Dawdling, and Over-thinking

If you had been at our house this morning, you would have seen me standing over the washing machine with my arm in almost up to the shoulder, frantically fishing through cold, dark water for my drowned cell phone. Already late for work, you would have heard me say a lot of things to myself. And you would have heard me end with "FUCKING STUPID."

And then, you would have heard a firm little voice in the kitchen say, "Mom. We don't say 'stupid'."


--

Ah, my Bird. She is a piddling, dawdling, piddledawdler in the mornings. A. puts up with most of it since I (theoretically, anyway) start my paid workday earlier than he does, and it is more frequently becoming a power struggle/ battle of wits/ tangle of wills between the two of them. They argue like teenagers. He asks her to put on her shoes, she puts on five finger puppets. He askes her to go get dressed, she spends her time jumping on the bed. He asks her to brush her hair, she ends up in a puddle of tears because she's found her winter coat in the too-small box. He asks her to put on her listening ears, and she says, "I left them at school." He counts to three. She complies at the final second. And more than a few times, Bird says, "Daddy. Settle down." Which, if you know my mild-mannered A., is especially funny. Except not to him.

--

So, about that too-small box. Looks like it's going to be seeing a lot of action starting this winter-- baby #2 is officially a girl. Time to start naming, sorting, wrapping our heads around what's going on around here. Two girls. Yay and yikes.

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No time like the pregnant to over-think some shit: In halfway following a discussion board comment thread, I read the words that push the overthink-buttons of WOH mamas around the country: "evaluate what you give up to go to work and decide if it's really worth it." I'll spare you the details of my rabbit-hole thinking-- my ever-changing and always hazy list of gains and losses that never declares a winner.

All this talk of giving up and gaining. Of worth. How much of it is truly about the benefit to the child and how much of it is about having sorted laundry and clean sheets and time to slow-cook a meal? How much is about parenting and how much is about physically being in and keeping up a home? How much is just straight-up personal, on both sides of the decision?

I have wrestled with internal and external voices that both encourage and challenge my choices as a working-away-from-home mama, and I can tell you with complete honesty that sometimes, the desire to be home with my child during the day really does boil down to having naptime to myself and getting some flowers planted. Running an errand in the middle of the day without paying for it with my lunch hour. Spending enough time in my house to clean it and enough time in my neighborhood to enjoy it. And having time for actual, personal, non-facebook connections with my actual, personal friends. That is what I am missing-- or feel like I've given up-- the most right now. I have time with Bird every night, but I haven't seen some of my dearest friends in months.

Makin'

I made this, and I made this.

The first one, simple/ fresh/ delicious and still yum on day 2-- though if you are going to carry over into lunch territory don't mix the roasted cherry tomato mix in with the soup. Keep 'em separate and mix up bowl by bowl, ya dig?

And the second one, HOLY HELL elastic thread, first my enemy and now my friend. Pics and pattern review to come soon, maybe. The dress turned out nice and light and summery, just the right shape for my getting-bigger belly but also the right shape for my non-baby body. Versatile.

In the garden

"Hey Bird, try one of these tiny orange tomatoes. They're sweet, like candy."

"This one has a butt."

Well, well, look at THIS! She decides to just SHOW UP again, eh?

I do have an excuse. I haven't been writing because I haven't really been awake for 3-ish months. Completely exhausted and sick as a damn dog and hardly able to construct a quick email sentence about whether or not I am available for a conference call. I mostly needed to be in a quiet and more private space for a bit while I wrapped my brain first around surviving the day and on a bigger scale, the impending whiz-bang close to 2009. At which time, I will be a mama to TWO. 12/13/09, baby. I can't (and won't) say we're ready or that we know how we're going to swing this, but it's what we want and it's good. We'll know what to do when we do it. Things always come together and I'm just trying to pay attention to the signs and opportunities. The excitement is different and more peaceful this time.

:::
One of my to-do lists currently includes the item, "list of demands." I have no idea what I meant when I wrote that, but I like knowing that, at some point, my demands may be met if I would only submit them in list form.

:::
I shopped at a grocery store in the college neighborhood on Monday. It was heaven: clean, bright interior, landscaped parking lot, well-stocked shelves and Fage yogurt availability. I was asked --MORE THAN TWO times-- not for change or cigarettes but if I could be helped in my food search (the staff must have sensed my wide-eyed wonder). There was actual eye contact as my food was passed over the scanner by the kind hands of a Harris Teeter associate, and polite conversation, even an offer to help me to my car with my seven very manageable bags-- an offer that, admittedly, first tripped my initial "DO NOT follow me to my car, M*f*kr" defense before I realized there is also a HELPFUL kind of following, not just the creepy, "can I have a ride" kind. The icing on the cake? This particularly well-lit, friendly grocery is open until ELEVEN o'clock-- hardly noteworthy to some, but the dingy yellow ghetto groceries close at 9pm due to the sometimes unsavory late night patrons, and visiting at 8:30 leaves you waiting to pay for your mealy, pink tomato in the one open checkout lane, inhaling the scent of a 7-pack per day smoker as she unloads an entire cart of Hungry Man dinners onto the belt while behind you, a ferociously strong person gives you the crazy eye, all of us prepared to accept complete indifference from the disgruntled check out girl with tattoos on her neck who will hear the sound of a dozen eggs being crushed under a watermelon as she bags your items, and throw your tortilla chips in the mix, just for good measure.

Shopping until eleven, like it's the most normal thing in the world. The luxury of it! After a lovely dinner out with old friends, I entered the friendly and well-lit grocery at 8:30pm, childless and free to roam about among the micro-brews and the bok choy, the non-sticky floors and pleasant, non-gaggy smells. It was like a past life. It was like checking into a spa. A spa with more than one kind of yogurt.