A Rose by Any Other Name...

     I'm sure you all know by now that two weeks ago yesterday, we welcomed our daughter Olivia into the world.  I will spare you the details but let's just say I always wondered what it would be like to have a natural birth and my labor progressed fast enough that I almost got to do just that.  *Shudder*.  I think if I ever go down the baby road again, I will demand an epidural at 32 weeks.  Of course, it was all worth it for my hairy little bundle of love.

     Being a second time mom is so much different than the first time around.  Maybe I'm just more like "Oh, yeah.  My first one is still alive, I got this", or maybe Peanut is a more laid back person than her 'Type A' older sis.  Yup, I called her Peanut.  Her legal name, Olivia Jane, has been used maybe three times total.   Instead, we seem to have dozens of nicknames for her already.  Peanut was the first one we started calling her, and this one dates back to the preggo days.  The rest of the list is far more entertaining.
     "Grumbles" tops the list due to the constant groaning and grumbling noises she makes.  She rarely cries unless she is really hungry, and the rest of her communications are in the form of pig like noises interspersed with little whimpers and forceful grunts. This particular name has also been feminized to         " Grumbleina".   Then there is one of my personal favorites, " Rooter Tooter".  Rooter referring to a baby's natural rooting instinct when hungry and Tooter..well that part speaks for itself. This one also has morphed into "Poops Moots" depending on the situation.
     With all these pseudonyms it is amazing that Ava ( aka Monkey, Biscuit, Claire Bear, and on occasion Boo Boo) knows her's sister's name at all.  If you ask her what Sissy's name is, she immediately responds with " 'Livia!" but when she is cooing at her directly in her face leaving Olivia with no choice but to listen, she calls her "Sister", which makes her sound like the world's tiniest nun.   I can only hope that with all these loving little nicknames our youngest will not be launched into an identity crisis before her first birthday.  But hey, Potato turned out ok, so I bet Snorty will too.  

Oh, For Shirt's Sake!

     Being approximately 100 years pregnant is starting to stretch my wardrobe a little thin.  Seriously.  My shirts are being pushed within an inch of their lives.  If they could talk they would beg for mercy.  My casual clothes are now consisting of about three pairs of shorts and a couple of tank tops that still manage to keep my belly button contained, as well as about two dresses.  My work wardrobe is another story entirely.  
Let me first start by apologizing to my co-workers for what they have to look at daily. Aside from the fact that even my full on, over the belly, old lady-style pants are cutting directly into my midsection (making my bump look more like the letter 'B' than is healthy or comfortable), my uniform polo shirts are now half shirts.  I look like the star quarterback in a 1980's teen romance movie, minus the permed mullet and pleated, stonewashed jeans.  If it were not for my trusty maternity tank top which hangs out of the bottom of my tops like a white flag of surrender, I would be sharing my formerly 'innie' belly button with anyone who has eyes.
     Now I will take a moment to discuss my pants.  As previously mentioned, the lovely upper stretchy panel is doing rude things to my bump.  Aside from that is the fact that I have absolutely no junk in the proverbial trunk.  Non-pregnant is not so bad because I can buy jeans to make it look like there is something back there, but these days,  I am keeping all my junk in the front seat if you will.  And since maternity pants only come in garbage bag ass or pancake ass , this presents a real challenge.   Buying pants to accommodate the girth means that there is tons of extra fabric in the back....but not a lot of extra in the length of the leg.  So my high waisted pants are high water pants as well.  Add to this the swollen ankles peeking out from between the pant leg and sock line and the mental image should be complete.  Since the first step to conquering a problem is admitting that you have one, I am doing it now.  I know I am fashionally challenged, but it's not forever.  In the meantime, realize that these sweatpants really are the most flattering things I could possibly be wearing...well, next to a muumuu anyway.

What's Cookin'?

     I love to cook.  It is one of my favorite things to do aside from, well, eating.  So it goes without saying that if someone asks me what I'm having for dinner, I usually have a delicious answer.  But being a million years pregnant is starting to take its toll on me and but the time supper rolls around, I am feeling less than inspired to whip up a tasty little meal.  Or, should I say, less inclined to clean up after whatever meal I made.  ( Hey, don't give me that look, you read my previous post. We have established that my cleaning is nothing to put on a resume.)
     For the first half of this week, dinner was awesome.  Homemade spicy tortilla soup.  Mashed potatoes with gravy, green beans, and beef and noodles.  Dirty rice and red beans.  I just ate and I'm drooling at the memories.  That brings us to today.  I decided to take the easy route and do a little grilled cheese and tomato soup action.  The bread was ready to be buttered and the cheese slices were standing by...and I did not have a single pot clean to make the soup in.
     This was a real dilemma for me.  Do I wait for the dishwasher to finish before making supper?  Do I  (shudder) hand wash a pan?  Nope.  I dig out the only clean item I have, a skillet, and set about figuring out what will be a fairly nutritious meal that can be made in under fifteen minutes and all in one skillet. A can of potatoes, five eggs, and a little cheddar cheese later breakfast for dinner is served.  Of course I acted like this was planned all along, a fun little change for dinner.  Ava and the hubby seemed to like it, and I stand by my decision.  So tomorrow when Stacy has a special request for supper, I'll be happy to oblige...as long as he runs the dishwasher before hand.

Like Stealing Juice From a Toddler

     My daughter is two years old and obsessed with chocolate milk.  She is just a skinny little thing, still wearing a size 18 month, so I don't mind too much that it's her beverage of choice.  But the smother mother in me can't be silenced.  I worry about the sugar content, the caffeine in chocolate, and the ever rising cost of the beverage itself.  I also worry that it is the gateway drink.  What is there to graduate to after chocolate milk?  Milkshakes?  Straight melted butter? Bailey's Irish Creme?
     So I  tried to slowly lower the three cuppies of chocolate milk she drinks a day to one.  And, like any addict, I needed to decide the best method for her to conquer this addiction.  Cold turkey seemed awfully harsh and unnecessary, so we went with the toddler version of nicotine gum.  Capri Sun Roarin' Waters.  At an affordable $1.97 for ten and low in sugar and calories, it seemed like a good idea.  And it was until she figured out what I was doing.  At first the novelty of the shiny foil pouch that would douse anyone in a ten foot radius when squeezed was irresistible.  Then it became old hat when she realized that the 'juice water' as she called it was to replace, not supplement, her beloved drink.  Which left me with about twenty packs of the stuff. ( It was on sale and I wanted to provide a variety of flavors!)
     Now we have a new addict in the house.  That's right.....Mommy.  I can't get enough of the stuff.  I drink three a day.  Wild Cherry, Tropical, Grape, all equally delicious and thirst quenching.  I do it in secret because of the shame.  I'm hoping that this is just a pregnancy craving, but I highly doubt it.  Maybe I should switch to chocolate milk...if I can get Ava to share.
    

Driving Under the Influence...of Hormones

     I don't mind driving.  After all, my commute to work is an hour one way.  Usually I like to listen to the radio and enjoy the built in 'me' time the drive provides .  However, lately things have been a little...different.  

     For starters, I am 5'3" tall, and with this belly I'm about as wide.  Which means that I have my seat up as far as it will go so my feet can reach the pedals, and the steering wheel jacked up so it is practically parallel with the floor. This allows for the bump to nestle directly underneath the steering wheel, thus making my arms jut out at 90 degree angles while steering.  It is not attractive.  I look like a school bus driver when operating my vehicle which, incidentally, is the tiniest car known to man.  

     Ok, so it's not the tiniest car, but if a Volkswagen Beatle and a SmartCar made a baby the result of their union would be my car, the Suzuki Reno.  I feel like my left elbow is always bruised from banging into the driver's side window while maneuvering, and I find that I am taking any small traffic incident personally.  For example, my eyes actually welled up with tears when a jackass routinely cut me off at my on ramp, and construction makes me  weep bitterly.  Everyone tells you how when you are pregnant you will want pickles and ice cream, and you will cry at tampon commercials.  But no one tells you that you will be sobbing like it's the first time you have ever seen "Old Yeller" when trying to do something as simple as go to work. So next time you are driving to work, be grateful that you have adequate room for all of your appendages to move freely. Trust me, I'm so jealous I could cry.

The Joys of Nesting

     I am the worst housekeeper of all time.  Literally.  When friends visit my house I usually say that I just moved in and haven't finished unpacking or that I am having a garage sale.  I've lived here six years and don't even have a garage.  There is a rocking recliner in my living room that no one sits in due to the fact that there are always clothes piled up on it.  We affectionately refer to it is 'the laundry chair'.  These are the clean clothes.  The dirty ones are another story.  They reside in two locations:  the laundry basket in the bathroom and....a designated spot in the kitchen floor.
     Now before you start thinking my house looks like an episode of "Hoarders" I have to say, I have a system.  I can tell my husband that the dress shirt he is looking for is in the basement on a hanger behind Ava's Halloween costume from last year, and that my purse is in the hall closet underneath the mini Christmas tree and the bag of clothes from Kohl's that I haven't taken the tags off.  Also, my cupboards are an architectural masterpiece.  Based on the way I stack Cheerios, Triscuits, Fiber One Bars and Goldfish Crackers in flimsy bags, I should be designing earthquake proof buildings and making a lot more money than I do working part time.
     All of these factors combined make the fact that I am currently eight months pregnant with my second daughter and in the hormonal throes of nesting all the more interesting.  Instead of being on my knees scrubbing the tile with a toothbrush, I am organizing my heart out.  I have bought totes, containers and plastic hangers.  I have folded underwear with abandon and placed them neatly in our dresser drawers.  I created a diaper basket with all the necessities, wipes, Desitin, and packs of Huggies.  And I can't find anything.  I keep looking in all the old haunts for my favorite coffee mug only to curse life when I can't remember where I decided was a more appropriate location for the damn thing.  My hair is terrifying because I have no idea what I did with my gel.  And my favorite jean maternity shorts are no where to be found.  Not the basket in the bathroom, not in the kitchen floor and not even in the laundry chair.  It would be the understatement of the year to say that I am so ready to give birth to my daughter.  Aside form the fact that I can't wait to meet this darling that I have been toting around for the last 250 days, I just want my coffee mug back.  Mess and all.