The fever finally strikes!

I was waiting for it to happen, and at last it did! Mom and Dad went to a garage sale and bought a boatload (literally) of baby toys and clothes. When I say "boatload," I mean that the toys were boats, and the vast majority of clothing had either planes or trains on them.

Now, really, did we expect anything different from my mass-transport oriented father?

All I'm saying is, if it's a girl, she will be the most well-outfitted future aviatrix on the face of the planet. Cause there's no way I'm wasting these adorable Baby Dior clothes.

Getting my kicks

This child is definitely active. This morning, at about 5:30, the baby kicked me right out of bed (well, not really), so I came downstairs and did Something Productive. I overhauled Scholar's teaching portfolio. Added some nifty graphics, edited some of his writing, and just generally made myself indispensable.

Put that office work together with -- oh, I don't know. How about several resumes, job applications, and personal statements? And now the Brother would like some help with his resume! For someone who already has a job lined up, why do I feel the stress of hunting for one?

The baby will do his/her own resume, believe me! And there's another kick, just as an accent.

Bother's Day

Yesterday afternoon, I ran over to an outrageously expensive grocery store where I used credit to buy foodstuffs for a Father's Day picnic. I was going to cook hots and hamburgs, but I couldn't find the hamburger rolls at the store. I called Dad to ask him to pick some up on his way home (the picnic was not a surprise). I had just started opening the cake mix box to begin preparation of said cake when the phone rang. The following conversation ensued:

Me: Hello?
Dad: Hey, it's Dad.
Me: Hi.
Dad: I'm just leaving the store now. I got hamburger rolls, strawberries, hamburg, sausage, shrimp, vegetables and dip, ice cream, and a peach cake.
Me: (eyeing cake mix box sadly) You got a peach cake?
Dad: Yeah, we can put the strawberries on it. Oh, and I called your grandparents. They're coming over around 5.

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Well, hell. I didn't want to make the stupid cake anyway. I really just wanted to eat the frosting.

This type of behavior is typical of my dad, and I really can't resent it -- because I'm the same way. I get excited about small projects and turn them into big ones. I take over for people (who, let's face it, might be totally capable of existing without my help, but aren't they so much better off when I meddle???). And when it comes to parties, I operate under the theory that More Is Better, and buy enough to feed the Mongolian Horde (luckily, Dad didn't invite them -- grandparents are Horde a-plenty).

I decided that the best Father's Day gift I could give Daddy would be to graciously let him take over, but I already got him a gift, so instead I whined and tried to make him feel guilty about all the money I'd spent.

The evening was off to a rockin' start when my Grandma came over, put her arm around my waist, patted me on the hip, and said, "Hello, big girl. Big girl."

Yeah, hello right back to you, short, wrinkled, old person with an attitude from hell.

I should be used to her comments. She really has a problem with my weight; it embarrasses her to no end. She told me once that she loved me a lot, but she'd love me even more if I was thin. My grandmother, people. I mean, isn't she supposed to be giving me t-shirts that say, "Grandma spoils me rotten" and stuff?

But the really interesting thing happened later, and since it's the point of this whole post, I will quit my bitching and cut to the chase. Mom, Gram, and I were sitting on the couch, and we were talking about pregnancy. As it turns out, Gram had the same complications I'm having, and she shared a little of what she experienced. That part was nice.

Maybe it's karma.

I took this cool on-line test. That's the link to read what it says about me.

Scholar tells it like it is

So my sister and I were having this little argument last night, and I let her know exactly what I thought of her possible course of action. She was less than pleased at my candor, and let me know exactly what she thought of my well-intentioned advice. We hung up a few moments later, but I pretty much seethed all night.

At 2 a.m., I woke up and I was still mad. I was so mad, I was actually twisting my bed sheet around and around in my hands. Finally, I rolled over and poked Scholar. "Are you awake?" I asked.

"Yes," he mumbled.

"Well, I can't sleep." I proceeded to rant about the argument, and how Rider was being so insensitive and not taking any of my feelings into account, and how dare she after all I've been through...and then I asked him, "Am I being unreasonable? Is this just a knee-jerk reaction to that old stuff?"

"No," Scholar said as he kissed me on the shoulder. "It's a jerk reaction."

"I'm being a jerk?"

"Uh-huh."

Can't argue with that kind of wit -- at least not at 2 a.m. And for some reason, that settled things. I could sleep again.

The thing you should know about Scholar

is that he snores. VERY LOUDLY. And while some people might advocate rolling him over or pinching his nose, those people have no inkling of the stubborn streak within my husband. He is determined to snore. VERY LOUDLY. So there's no help for it but waking him up and praying he will be kind enough to wait until I fall asleep before he starts snoring -- I mean -- sleeping again.

Last night was horrible.

I haven't slept well in about a week. My hips hurt, and I can no longer sleep on my back or stomach. So I was praying that I would fall right into slumberland and stay there for...oh, about a month or so. At about 1:30, the rafters started shaking. At 2, I rolled over and poked him. At 2:25, I gathered my pillows and left our bedroom, shaking with exhaustion and righteous indignation.

"You need to stop crying," Scholar muttered, still mostly asleep.

"YOU NEED TO STOP SNORING!" I shrieked. "You have to do something about this!"

As if the whole problem was him and had nothing to do with me being sixteen weeks pregnant! Anyway, I went into the spare bedroom, where I discovered that in our absence, the cats had vomited on the sheets. I changed the sheets. I went downstairs and made myself a mug of hot milk and Irish Creme-flavored Coffee Mate. Oh, it was delicious. I settled myself down, my head hit the pillow...

about ten minutes later, my own snoring woke me up. I ask you, is that karma or what?