A Good Saturday

I love me a full day. Granted, ‘full’ could be also construed as watching a Survivor marathon 8 hours straight, so please feel free to define it any way you’d like.

But today I felt productive: both in chores and quality time.

Everyday we officially wake up to this little lady staring at us. I say officially because it’s only the last couple of hours that she’s in bed with us. Yes, I’m still breastfeeding. And yes, I have moments where I want to chop off my breast Amazon woman-style just to be done with it, but most other times I enjoy holding this growing girl in my arms.

So when she wakes up at 5:30 for her early morning feeding, I stumble back into bed with her and we sleep for a couple more hours, if we’re lucky. She wakes up, yells at both of us mamamamamadadadadada, then Boo (minus the K), and I reach down for a couple books for her to read as we close our eyes a little while longer.

Some days we have energy, others we don’t.

This day we did, so Ryan fixed us his homemade sausage, cheese, and egg mcmuffins. Protein points for this pregnant lady.
I literally could eat those all day long, but controlled myself and managed to squeeze a day’s worth into a morning meal. I took over breakfast duty to let Ryan and Ruth watch Saturday morning cartoons, which consisted of (what else?) He-Man & She-Ra the movie.

Ruth just wanted to read. That’s all she wants to do now. She’ll pick a book from the shelf, hand it to you, then scoot backwards into your lap. No matter what I’m doing, I stop to read to her because if there’s one activity I want her to enjoy, it’s reading. No batteries, no electricity, no controllers needed. Just you, the printed page, and preferably something to eat. My mom remembers holing up eating buttered popcorn with a book in hand when she was younger. It will take me less than a nano second to continue that tradition. Because, really, the only qualification needed for a family tradition is buttered popcorn.

So while Ruthie read by the sunshine, I hung out laundry in the sunshine.

To be able to still hang out clothes in mid-November is wonderful.

I had vintage laundry cart that I’d wheel up and down the line. It looked like this:


But the cloth was coming apart and it was hard to transfer clothes easily from the dryer, across the living room, to the vintage hamper. So I’d have to use a regular platic hamper to make the transition. One thing I hate is having several different things that do the same job. So after searching online, I found this guy:


I want it if only to have an excuse to wear a jean on jean ensemble. Whomever has me as a secret santa, this is available for just $40 more than our max budget of ten bucks. Go ahead, splurge.

After I got a little sun on my face, I plopped chicken into the crockpot to cook for the day.

After it’s done, I use the bones and fat along with left over vegetables to make broth overnight. After straining it Sunday morning, I was able to get 10 cups out of the deal. Two birds, one stone. Lovely.

After a morning nap, the family drove to The Dollar Store because we were on a mission. I wanted to start a family tradition each Thanksgiving of volunteering, but Ruth is not old enough to scoop soup out without a baby spoon. And I can’t imagine the agony of being hungry only to have your food ladled 1 teaspoon at a time.

I thought we could do something else in the meantime. We chose to participate in Operation Christmas Child. You fill up a “shoebox” with toys, sanitary items, etc, attach a label with the age and sex of who you are buying for, and drop it off at various locations. The label also has a bar code that the company scans so you can track where your package is going.

Since there were three of us, we had three shoeboxes, one for each of our sexes and for the age range closest to us. 1 male: 10-14 years, 1 female: 10-14 years, and 1 female: 2-4 years.

Ruthie was a blur of excitement as we shopped for her girl.

I had absolutely no idea what to buy the boy. Ryan said, “Don’t worry, I got this.” And promptly came back with an armful of boy games. I nixed the snot rockets, but everything else was solid. Even though Ryan would be a perfect dad for girls, I still hope he gets a little boy someday. He would be so excited to build and destroy with a mini-him.

Ruthie, in the meantime, really only wants a green apple and she’s happy. Not quite into destruction… unless it involves spaghetti.

I’ll give you three seconds to spot my belly button. Go.

We arrived home after buying a ton of items only to have it total to much less than expected. Gotta love the dollar store. And gotta not love walking in and seeing that you never plugged in the crock pot. Ah, the trials of a homemaker.

It almost ruined my day. Almost.

But luckily we headed to the park and that always perks me up.

Ruthie thinks she’s a big girl playing on the slide by herself. Don’t you dare try to help her either. And Lord help us if another kid shows up, because then Little Miss Show Off comes out to play. A boy joined her in the playhouse and she at first stood there, repeating ‘Hi’ a thousand times. He didn’t notice. So as he hesitated at the slide entrance, she got a determined look on her face, basically pushed him out of the way, and slid down.  

Do you like how we never take her out of her pj’s?  I mean, if we’re all in pj’s then we’re just a really cute mitchy-matchy family, right?

Besides, after our park jaunt, we went home and immediately all took a nap. So basically we’re just super prepared.

When we woke up, dinner was made and kombucha was drunk. By Ryan, at least. It’s not advised to start drinking kombucha regularly if you’re pregnant. It’s really good for your digestive system, but it detoxes your body, so you don’t want the detox to think the foreign entity trying to grow in your uterus is not supposed to be there. If you’d already been drinking it regularly, I guess I’ve read it’s safe.

And since Ryan’s stomach was troubling him the past couple weeks, what better timing to force him to start!

I mean, look at this!! Doesn’t it look yummy???
Mmmmmmmm, pulling out the mother. Tasty!
You don’t eat the mother. Save it for your next batch. With each batch a new mother is grown. You can see in the first picture there are several mothers floating at the bottom. Pretty appetizing. 
But for how much they’re going for in health food stores, it’s nice to see I can get a good batch out of only 4 bags of tea, water, and sugar. Amazing.

So after Ryan choked it down (although he did say it tasted like apple juice), we played with Ruthie, hiding Cookie Monster in various places for her to find.
Thankfully she’s a serious child. And finding cookie monster and pulling off his head was serious business indeed.
The day felt long, like mid-summer-it’ll-never-go-dark day. And we needed that, big time.

Hunkering down before the holiday storm. And I couldn’t ask for a better pair to spend it with.

Holy Mother of.. What is she holding?

In case you haven’t noticed the signs, I’m pregnant.

What are those signs, you ask? Well, let me think.

  • My hermit-like phases where I’d rather lay on a bed of nails then talk to another breathing person.
  • My inability to walk past flour, eggs, and sugar without making cookie dough and then eating the whole bowl.
  • Listening to the beginning of ‘Oklahoma’ and then promptly bawling to my mother about the beauty of the chorus in the background.
  • Zombie-like void-of-emotion stares in the mirror as I realize my shot at singing in a chorus on stage for Oklahoma will probably not happen.
  • Widening of my eyes as I then realize that if I don’t dye my hair ever again, I’ll possibly be able to play the grandmother for Oklahoma.
  • Soaring happiness as I come to the final realization that the role of grandmother would be just fine.
  • Looking in the mirror and regretting that bowl of cookie dough.
  • Asking if I look fat.
  • Running away before you can answer because I really don’t feel like talking to anyone.

…and repeat. Basically I’ve acted pregnant since age 12. Sorry to every person with whom I’ve come in contact.

But this time is for real.

And so I went to have my first (and probably last) ultrasound to try and narrow down the due date. Ryan and Ruthie stayed at home, so it was just me and my little friend on our first date. I was laying there watching this little peanut wiggle around kicking and realized that I haven’t focused much on baby very much. In between Ruthie crying as soon as I stand up and then her falling onto coffee tables making everyone I see question if they need to call DHS…. yeah, not much time to sit and dwell. But as I laid in the dark room, it finally hit me that there was a little person in there already depending on me. It was twisting back and forth, holding its hand to its face, almost like he/she was trying to tell me something ….something profound and heartwarming, like,

Would ya eat a fricken vegetable already?!?

Fine, baby. You win. But only if I smother it in ranch. I can’t even look at colored foods without losing my appetite.

So I drove home, happy to have a non-3D photo of my friend because, let me be honest here, those make me feel faint. Even the weekly updates sent to me about how big my baby is can bring out the gag reflex. Until they’re literally in my birth canal, I am just fine with the shadowy, gritty, hard to decipher regular ultrasound photos.

And then I reached into the goodie-bag given to me from the clinic.

What the cuss is that.

A baby bird?

No, it’s a 12 week fake baby fetus.

After I put my head between my legs and caught my breath again, I picked it up.

And put it up against my belly. Surely it’s bigger than that? I guess I must also be carrying a set of cookie dough quintuplets.

What the heck am I going to do with a rubber fetus? I mean, it’s not even a pencil eraser.

So, I decided Ruth needed another baby to play with and placed it at the end of the coffee table.

No interest, no interest, no interest… and all of a sudden, BAM:
Grubby paws ready for her next victim.

Like any coveted item, it’s immediately place behind the back to protect from others.

And quickly thrown on the ground. Why does it stay scrunched up, she wonders? Maybe if I rock it a bit, it’ll loosen up…

No dice. And so in an obvious imitation of her mother when frustrated with babies, she does the only thing possible:
and passes it off to Ryan.

That’s my girl.
As the day wore on, though, it became an unwelcome reminder of things that need to get under control. Like, dying plants.

Yeah, fetus, I’m gonna get on that.
Or dirty dishes.

Fetus, I know. Gawsh! Put the dishes into the dishwasher throughout the day and you won’t have a sink full by the end of the night.
Sweep the floor? Okay, now fricken leave me alone. You know I’m in my ‘I prefer to not talk to anyone’ phase, and that includes fake 12 week rubber fetus babies.

Ah, now where were we. Oh yeah, I’m pregnant.

And apparently losing it.