Fire!

Our son's pre-school caught fire last night. Fortunately, no one was hurt. Unfortunately, we have no idea when our son will be back in school, which means we probably won't be back to a regular work schedule until at least next week.

Talk about frustrating. It's not all bad, though. My mom's getting into town tomorrow, so at least she'll get extra time with Ragsy. Plus, if pre-school is closed Thursday, I might be able to get her to watch him that day. Did I mention that my mom isn't the most grandmotherly person? If she watches Ragsy Thursday, he'll probably lose brain cells. Mom's a huge TV addict, to the point where she's actually purchased her own television for the guest room downstairs and intends to bring an older one for our kitchen. I've put my foot down that it'll be off when Ragsy is here, but that's not likely to work if I ask her to watch him.

Oh, well. Guess we'll just have to crack the whip when we get home. Grrr...

You know your house is messy when...

Your three-year old looks at the clutter, looks at you and says, "Mommy, I don't like this." Yikes. In our defense, the clutter has been created by organizing every closet, flat surface and room in the house. Unfortunately, this means pulling things out, putting them on the floor so we can see them and sorting them into piles: junk, recycle, donate, keep. But, since we have very little time in the evenings and so bloody much stuff, our organizing projects tend to languish on the floor overnight until the next day when we do have time. Then there's the regular day-to-day maintenance work of cleaning the dishes, folding the laundry and so on that eats away even more time.

Even more unfortunately, my husband has so far been uninvolved in the organization process, meaning that it's going much slower since you have someone with limited energy reserves and increased sleep needs doing the work. That's going to change. Tonight.

I had hoped to meet some friends for drinks and dinner, but I don't think we'll be able to get a babysitter, so we might just stay home and clean. My husband will hate it, but he'll do it because he wants this place organized just as much as I do, but is often stymied by indecision on where to start. I can take care of that.

Anyway, you may wonder what I'm doing writing a post in the middle of the morning. Or you may not care. Sadly, I have not quit my job. But on the other hand, I'm working at home before I do a seminar on Medicare at a local community college this afternoon. I desperately needed a break - I'm reading the Senate Finance Committee bill that was released on the 16th. It's slow-going. With the proposal (220 pages) and the actual bill (600-odd pages), it's enough to cause instant insomnia. So I stopped for food and to make some coffee.

I was also really glad to stay home this morning because I got to see Ragsy before his apple-picking field trip. He's been waiting impatiently all week to wear a shirt that he designed at pre-school (apple-shaped sponges dipped in red paint on a white shirt) specially for the field trip. He also loves apples. I was thrilled because he's so passionate about the things he likes. He woke up late (8 a.m., the equivalent of him sleeping 'til noon) because he kept trying to climb into bed with us at 1 a.m. As soon as I went into his room to get him out of bed and reminded him what day today was, he threw his hands up in joy, then threw himself at me for a huge hug, all the while yelling, "Yay! I'm going apple picking!" Then he danced down the hall, delighted to get his clothes and shoes on (another rarity - he loves pajamas) and couldn't stop dancing long enough to drink his milk. He then danced out the door with Daddy, granola bar clutched in one hand, the other hand (and his hips) doing a pre-schooler's version of the Charleston.

I love that. It's moments like those that I live for. That and those rare minutes I manage to snatch with my husband alone in a quiet room. Anyway, back to work. This bill isn't going to read itself, though I wish to God it would. Yuck.

Constant craving.

I am hungry even when I finish eating. It's very frustrating. I just had dinner (about an hour after a snack) a couple of hours ago - a pretty substantial one: about a cup of a BBQ chicken mixture I made and some corn casserole. I was still hungry when I finished, but out of principle refused to eat more. I think I'll have to have a snack before bed, though, or I'll wake up at 2 a.m. again, starving and unable to sleep.

A pattern has developed in my weekends: wake up, eat, sleep. Wake up, eat, sleep. This interspersed with hours of cleaning and playing with my son. But that's the primary theme - when I'm not cleaning or running with Ragsy, I'm waiting until such time as I can go to sleep or eat something again.

What's really aggravating is that Ragsy has unfortunately decided that he no longer wants to sleep. That includes naps and bedtime. He's still up now, at 9:30, yammering at black cat. The thing is, even if you take away all his props (animals, any toys he might be permitted to take to bed), he's imaginative enough that he manages to somehow act something out, even laying down. Right now, he and black cat are apparently having a full Mexican meal, laying down, complete with mariachi music (which he's creating himself, of course), chips, salsa, three different types of beverage, an entree and a basket of something. He'd be doing it with or without black cat, so, short of shutting off his brain, there's no stopping it. Ah, well. It's good to know that I'm not the only one fantasizing about food in bed. The only difference is that he's not actually hungry or he'd make it abundantly clear.

Upkeep, Caddyshack style.

Over the last few months, I've been visited by fire-breathing bunnies who insist on nipping just the tips of my serrano peppers. I took care of those guys, strangely, with a mixture or water and cayenne. Now we have a woodpecker stubbornly boring itself into a wall or our roof. Every morning we hear it, a staccato drilling sound, not unlike a teeny jackhammer. I'm about to blow up the wall.

Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face. But, woodpecker, it's on. Don't settle in. You're not going to be living in my house that long. I won't try to kill you, just scare the bejeezus out of you until you go away. Or I'll move your nest. Yeah, take that!

Timing is everything.

Not only is my baby somehow going to be born smack dab in the middle of the earliest time of year for my particular profession, I recently started getting calls for more freelancing. Starting, of course, in mid-October. It's incredible how everything always happens at once. Blast, this could have been useful last year.

Anyway, speaking of timing, I'm looking forward to having this baby. Carrying him or her has been a delight, but I'm getting heartily sick of doctor's appointments. I'll be at appointments every two weeks with my regular OB next week, plus I'm supposed to go in for weekly non-stress tests and then there's the perinatologist, who loves to see me. So that's a minimum of one appointment per week (for now), with the potential of four per week, if you count my neurologist (who fortunately doesn't need to see me as often) and not including all my blood work.

Anyway, so I go in for my first fetal monitoring session next week. I was all bent out of shape about it earlier, but my husband made an excellent point. Trust him to be the voice of reason. Grr, I hate that.

Husband: Andi, what's wrong?

Answer: *why, yes, I was in quite the diva-like snit* My doctor says I have to go in for fetal monitoring every week! Dammit, I have a job. How can I expect someone to keep me on staff if I can't even guarantee that I'll be there!

Husband: Well, have you been told there are complications with this pregnancy? What questions have you asked?

Answer: If anything I'm doing better with this pregnancy, not worse. My weight gain is less, my blood pressure is better - everything's better so far.

Husband: And, what questions have you asked?

Answer: Ummm...

Husband: So this is precautionary. They have absolutely no reason to suspect something might be going on with the baby.

Answer: Correct...for now.

Husband: Okay, why haven't you asked more questions about why they want you in so often?

Answer: Well...

Husband: You know they can't force you to go, right? Or you can at least ask for more information. I mean, if nothing is wrong and everyone knows it, even your doctor, why would you agree to possibly unnecessary tests without asking more just because they say so?

Answer: Ahhh.....

Husband: When you get closer to delivery, it probably makes sense, but you can disagree or at least get more information, you know.

Answer: *crickets chirping, Andi sniffing* Oh, yeah.

So I called, talked to the doctor who said that it was just standard policy for high risk pregnancies and she agreed that it was probably unnecessary but that she wanted me to go in next week if possible to get a baseline to start from and that, if I could, she'd like me to go in weekly, but if it wasn't possible, as long as my tests were normal, I could have a pass.

I wish I'd thought of that earlier instead of going into an "I can work like this!" diatribe. I'm lucky enough to have that luxury where many women experiencing a high-risk pregnancy don't. So I should shut my pie hole and take advantage of it already.

And they're out!

Everyone's asleep. At last. My husband and Ragsy went on a morning jaunt to the zoo that wound up lasting way longer than it was supposed to. Since I do most of my cooking on Sundays, that left me with plenty of time to whip up an enormous lunch, of which only I have partaken. Go figure. But at least I get some time alone, right?

By the time he got home, my husband had managed to wear our son out so much he actually asked to go to sleep, something that's completely unheard of. Unfortunately, my husband also insisted my son eat something before bed, resulting in an hour-long eating marathon that involved very little eating and a lot of attempting to play, culminating in threats for him to sleep or he would have to stay home from a friend's house this evening. Now that I think about it, that's a stupid threat since I'd be shooting myself in the foot, too.

Anyway, yesterday was a blast - we went to Eckert's for a work/family event my husband's company put on and came home with eight pounds of apples. Fortunately, Ragsy really likes apples and has managed to eat two already. I guess we'll be eating lots of applesauce, apple pie, compote and cake in the coming weeks. If you like apples, you're definitely invited. I'm already tired of them.

One down, one to go.

Where on earth did all these darn books come from? I'm still boxing the things up and I've been doing it for a couple of weeks now. I've managed to clean out a large book case (keeping all of my husband's at his request and donating mine that I don't want) and my nightstand and have come up with six boxes of books to keep and six bags of books to donate. That doesn't include the small amount of books I've decided not to put in storage or donate (fiction books I know I'll read again, baby-related books for the first couple years, etc.).

Still, it's like these books are crawling out of the woodwork. There are books from my graduate program - books by Plato and Plutarch and Nietzsche, plus ceramic dating techniques, information on the evolution of writing, South American paleoethnobotany, bone identification, etc. - some of which I'll keep to make myself feel good when I'm old. Then there are the trashy romances, a couple anthologies that I was in, and about a bazillion from other authors (what? a girl's gotta do some research). Then there is the mishmash of literary fiction, poetry, household how-to books, random recipe books and a copy of the Ramayana that my husband's granddad gave me while we were in India. It's such a weird collection.

I love my books. I wish I had the time to sit down and catalog them all so I know which ones I've read, but if I run out of steam just bagging them up, I can't imagine I'll ever get them out the door if I record them. I still have bookcase #2 to go and a closet full of odds and ends - books, books and more books, plus photos and other things I stuffed in there one day when I was cleaning to get ready for my sister to visit.

Gah! How did I get so much stuff and when did it all get so disorganized? Oh, well. Better late than never to get it together, I suppose. Maybe by the time these kids are in college I'll have gotten organized enough to stop obsessing over my bookcases.

Excuse me?

Yes, it's another rant about pregnancy. Or rather, my husband's response to my pregnancy. So far, I've been pretty stable emotionally. So, what, I cried while watching an AT&T commercial. But that was months ago and I was alone. So that doesn't count. And yes, a couple of songs on the radio have made me dissolve into a puddle. Again, I was alone. Doesn't count.

Yet I almost lost it today when I was complaining that I spent most of my day standing up at work because every time I sat down I was kicked in the same blasted spot from about 10 a.m. until I left work at 4:45 p.m. and I was beginning to get tender. Nothing I could do with the exception of sitting down could dislodge the little creature from the top right of my abdomen. Why did I almost lose it? Well, my husband (whom I love dearly) suggested that perhaps I ought to watch my sugar intake. Ahem.

I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you correctly. Did you just say I should watch my sugar intake? Why, yes, I did share a milkshake with you yesterday afternoon. However, that's been the extent of my sugar intake for two days. Remember when I had a large glass of milk while you consumed God knows how much ice cream the night before last? Or perhaps when I indulged in some cocoa-roasted almonds while you had some cookies? Or maybe my great sugar indulgence was the bowl of strawberries I ate with my whole wheat toast the other day.

I am far from a saint where anything is concerned, least of all food. But I've been pretty decent so far and remember: I'm dangerous. I'm nesting and I'm getting jerked awake at least three or four times a night thanks to my internal ninja and am soaking the sheets nightly thanks to hot flashes. And having to wake up then sit up simply to roll over as if I were some beached whale isn't helping any. Oh, and did I mention how fun it is to squirm in my seat in the middle of facilitating a meeting, hoping no one notices how sweaty I've suddenly become?

So watch the food comments, buddy. You make them at your peril.

Let the weekend begin!

12:45 a.m. on Monday morning and my weekend can finally start. I've been working on a pet project all weekend and have finally sent off a finished product. Which means that I'll be working next weekend, too, but at least it's on something that benefits me directly and I can forget about it temporarily. Now maybe I'll actually have time for some creative writing instead of professional consulting. I'd much rather spend a late night cuddled up to my computer if I can legitimately use the word "throbbing." Somehow that word just doesn't work well with Medicare.

Other than that, I've been dedicating myself to exhausting my family by doggedly organizing (from the mess I've made, you wouldn't know it), scrubbing things, side projects and frantic baby-related purchases (don't I already have most of this stuff?). Ragsy took an unheard-of 3-hour nap today. So did I.

But, I'm trying to look at things on the good side. My feet aren't swollen when I wake up - they go down overnight, which is more than I can say for this time last pregnancy. I've still got a modicum of energy, again, which is more than I can say for this time last pregnancy. I think it has something to do with a three year old boy giggling like a lunatic and yelling, "Mommy, let's run!" and me being genius enough to do it. Consequently, my weight gain is still reasonable at 17 pounds. I try to ignore the fact that I was never small to begin with.

Anyway, there's no way things will be ready by the time this kid gets here or even by the time my energy runs dry. But we'll be closer than before Ragsy was born, I think. Now if this kid will just avoid being born on my birthday, I think we'll be golden.