In which I lay the blame on the doors

Drugs. Equal. Awesome.

I sucked down every home-grown remedy for pregnancy "morning" sickness since Eve got advice from her mother-in-law (think about it), but nothing works like good ole manmade synthesized DRUGS.

Zofran, I worship you.

Now that I finally feel like ME again, I'm getting to all the things that I didn't do during the weeks I didn't feel like me.

(My husband worships Zofran too.)

I picked up the first floor, scoured the bathroom and mopped the hallway this morning - all before 8:00AM. And then I exercised. (I know!) Spent a few hours playing catch-up in Mommy Time. Pretty sure my kids have missed me. Mommy? Playing with us again? Something changed ... she must be cutting our college savings again and feeling guilty ....

And now naptime has arrived and it's time for me to move on to another Project.

What to choose? Hang pictures? Paint? Do another bathroom? Attempt to conquer the storage room? (HA! Good one ...)

Nope. Priority is our CLOSET.

Now, the problem with the closet is that it has a DOOR. And it's HUGE. (The closet, not the door.) You can make a royal mess, close those lover-ly mirrors, and nobody has to know.

Over There, in Brazil, they don't have closets. They have these:

They're called "guarda-roupas" - essentially "place to put away clothes." They're very thin and narrow and don't really lend themselves to piles of "I don't look good in that today" or "I don't feel like putting away those clean clothes right now." Our clothes were pretty much always clean and organized because, well, they had to be. I couldn't run away from it.

Now, however, I have this big beautiful black hole that I can destroy and then promptly turn away from.

(I know I ended with a preposition. It's okay. Breathe. This is English, not Latin. Look it up.)

I'm fairly good at keeping visible rooms clean-ish. After all, we might have visitors and THEN WHAT WOULD THEY THINK?! Our family room/kitchen area RIGHT NOW:

(dang it I should have put away the flip-flops ...)

The nice, shiny sink - FlyLady would be so proud.

Our front sitting room:

And ... brace yourselves for BEHIND THE SCENES BECKY:


Ouch. Ooo. Eeeek.

And yet, I really only have to see this atrocity twice a day. In the morning and at night. Very briefly. It's not in-my-face-disgustingness-that-I-have-to-stare-at-all-day. So, really, it's not my FAULT that it looks decidedly tornado-y. It's the door's fault. I cannot be blamed.

And ... naptime's almost over. Dang it. Looks like it'll have to wait another day. No biggie. I'll just shut the door.

Hi. I'm weak.

I am now a whopping NINE weeks into The Pregnancy. (I can't believe I'm only in the single digits ....) And I'm officially feeling like CRAP.

image here

And you know what crap feels like.

I think it's poetic justice somehow, because Da Boyz were all easy peesy, labor and all. It's only fair that This One be ... the epitome of horrible.

Mostly I just lay around and moan.

I've been taking my doctor-recommended Emetrol for my morning-afternoon-night-sickness, but I'm pretty sure that J.K. Rowling had it in mind when describing Skele-gro. It's that bad. And I'm not entirely convinced that it helps that much. (Although I actually cooked yesterday, so maybe it did do SOMETHING.)

I have a friend. Her name is Geny. She throws up for the first four months of her pregnancies. She lays on her side with the bucket below her mouth, letting the acidic drool drip out of her system. I believe she was hospitalized more than she was not.

And she had THREE kids. Voluntarily.

And then there's me, with only two weeks of misery to my name, and I cry about it to anyone that comes my way. (Although crying does have its benefits; a friend is watching Ouro Branco and Mr. Squishy for me, generously allowing me to blog and wallow in self-pity.)

I've been lauded for being 'tough' - I breeze through my pregnancies and spend a few hours breathing deeply until they're born. No drugs. "Wow, That Girl, you're so tough! So courageous! So strong!"

But I'm thinking that you don't know how strong you are until you've had some real opposition.

And ladies and gents, I'm WEAK.

The eye of the beholder

I'm not ugly.

I know that.

Still, it is the absolute truth to say that pretty girls intimidate me. I remember one undiscovered supermodel, in particular. I was assigned to be her visiting teacher. Poor chick. I took one look at that 5'11" blonde Rosalie with perfect white teeth and turned into a sweaty thirteen year old boy. I couldn't talk to her. I believe I left her three or four messages over the next few weeks, effectively alleviating my guilt, and then I moved.

Poor, poor chick.

I found out later that she was thoroughly depressed during the year she spent in our ward. Everyone was scared of her. No one talked to her. I was told she didn't go on a single date in high school - not even prom. She was just too dang gorgeous.

(I hope none of my kids are THAT good-lookin'.)

My new ward here in Arizona has got something going on in its water. Not only is everyone pregnant (I think the count is up to twelve?), but they're all a size 2 or 4, and fashion models. They, like, ACCESSORIZE. I own three necklaces. Two belts. One purse. Oh, and did I mention blinding beauty? BLINDING. I wear sunglasses to Relief Society.

(Totally lame joke. Feel free to ignore.)

But you know what? These blinding beauties are TOTALLY NORMAL. They struggle with screaming toddlers and wayward loved ones and outrageous bills and sweating in abnormal places. They're just like me.

And it makes me feel PROUD to be their friend. Because the #1 ingredient to friendship is love. And love? Envieth not. And is kind. And maybe - maybe - is just a little proud of another's talents. (Or good looks, as the case may be.)

And I'm suddenly very glad that I'm growing up. Pretty girls have ceased to terrify me - I now see them as potential bosom buddies.

Maturity does have its good points.

More friends, for one thing.

At the Department of Motor Vehicles ...

There was a high-powered lady - business suit - pearls - reading her Kindle
And stroking the curls of the little girl next to her.

There was a couple - tattoos - cigarettes - black boots
Who waved and cooed at my baby.

There was a tweedy man - glasses - high waist khakis,
Smiled at the tantrum-throwing toddler.

There was a dizzying mohawk teenager - punk T-shirt - pierced brows
With "please" and "thank you," opened the door for others.

I like people.

The first day of a l-o-n-g thirteen years

May your teacher recognize you for what you are - my precious, precious LITTLE PRINCE.

May she treat you with love and sensitivity -
May she be patient with you and smother you with hugs and kisses.
May your classmates be friendly -
May the playground be suh-weet
May your lunch stay cool until it's time to eat
(And may it be the envy of your friends.)
May bullies never cross your way -
May you experience opposition gently
May you never be teased or mistreated -
May you look both ways when you cross the street.
May you remember what I taught you -
May you be kind to others and befriend the lonely.
May you smile and introduce yourself; charm the teacher well.
And most of all, even though I'm hurting for you,
MAY YOU HAVE A BALL.

I can't hide it anymore

Literally.

SIX weeks, 3 inches.

Dude.

Some assembly required

OUR STUFF HAS ARRIVED.

*cue trumpets*

It only took three months. I'm not at all bitter.

Now that we have boxes stacked up to the ceiling, it is extremely evident that our much-anticipated Stuff is not sufficient to fill our house. Commence shopping. Commence budgeting. Commence stress.

We're all about IKEA, duh, because IKEA rocks my world. And DirectBuy. Of have you heard? It's a price club type deal; pay an (enormous) upfront fee, then you get factory prices - like pay $300 for a $1200 couch. Or $500 for $3000 cupboards. (Mostly I just get mad to find out the retail markups.) Anywho, it's a great deal if you have to buy a lot of stuff. Which we do.

(It also helps that my parents are members - we get the benefits without having to pay the fees. Score!)

Of course, buying Stuff at economy prices has its downsides. Namely, WE HAVE TO PUT IT ALL TOGETHER.

I complain about it, but at the same time I get a real sense of satisfaction in saying, "I DID THAT."

I, woman, hear me drill.

It reminds me of an incident that occurred years ago.

We were freshly arrived Americans in Podunkville, Brazil. Language limited. We'd just moved into a house from a (gagmesmellyyuckyihatedthatplace) apartment in Sao Paulo. I was putting together a bed when *clap clap clap,* I had visitors.

(Brazilians don't knock on the door; they clap. TRUE STORY.)

A couple stood there, grinning, kindly reminding me of their names, and inviting themselves inside. They indicated I should continue doing whatever I was doing, and they would help me. We bumbled through language barriers, laughing and being altogether ridiculous.

The three of us crowded into the guest bedroom, where there were sideboards and headboards and screws and railings all over the place. I picked up where I left off, trying to assemble a particularly hard piece. I might have struggled just a teensy bit.

At this, my new friends took the hardware from me, and, wagging their fingers, admonished,

"You're too high class to do this stuff. Leave it to us. We're poor. We're used to it."

Is it weird I was offended?

These people were mostly teasing themselves. They meant absolutely no harm. They went on to be some of my nearest and dearest friends. But I still remember, four years later, how disgruntled I was.

Excuse-a moi? You think I can't do this? You think I'm not used to this? You think I'm too hoity-toity to identify a Phillips screwdriver? Let me tell YOU, buster, I put together this whole freaking house. And I'm dang proud of it.

And it occurs to me that Americans value do-it-yourselfers. When I admire a quilt, I go crazy if it's hand made. I may compliment a painting, but if I find out you did it, I'm in conniptions. As soon as we lay a hand on it ourselves, it increases in worth.

Brazilians, on the other hand, display pride for the opposite reason. They point out when they've paid to have something done.

I'm not saying one is right and one is wrong. I'm not going to draw any profound philosophical conclusions. I'm just going to say that I ASSEMBLED THE DESK I'M SITTING AT RIGHT NOW.

And I'm proud of it.