11 February 2014

Again, Not My Baby

I’ve posted a couple of pictures in the past of me holding other peoples’ babies and of Brady holding other peoples’ babies . And I’m going to do it again today.

This is me, with a good friend’s baby, before Brady and I were even thinking about one of our own.

I can’t believe how close we’re getting. I get downright frozen wondering how in the world I’m going to manage two bedtimes on the nights when Brady is at the station. (If anyone has tips or suggestions, I’m ALL EARS.) That is my biggest fear. On the up side, I now know one thing for sure: despite how hard I know it will be at first, we will survive.

At least I think so.

We went to the big city on Saturday morning to pick up the supplies to get the baby room started. What supplies, you ask? Oh, just the basics: walls, ceilings, caulk, etc. And then Brady started working on it that evening, so that was pretty exciting. Just that little bit of progress had me excited and breathing easier.

Part of this process is selling our elliptical machine at a deep, deep discount. If anyone is interested, lemme know!

Why, no. I don’t plan on exercising, ever again.

Why do you ask?

I am feeling a little bit sorry for my husband in regard to this project. In and of itself, it’s not that hard. It’s when you have to make it happen on a decades old, screened-in porch that is crooked-er than the crooked-est that you might consider bulldozing and starting from scratch.

There was so much banging and measuring and creative language choices. It was a see-sawing, one-sided conversation with himself:

“It’ll be fine. I’ll figure out something creative.”

“WHY. WHY is this like this?!”

“Oh well. Nothing I haven’t had to tackle before.”

“I CAN’T BELIEVE HOW OFF THIS IS.”

Is it any wonder the back door doesn’t always close and the dead bolt only locks three days out of seven?

Robbers, don’t even think of taking advantage of this situation. We have an outside cat named Rosie Greer that weighs 700 pounds and eats tree limbs for breakfast. His favorite place to snuggle is right in the crack of the back door, so that everyone can trip over his massive pipe of a body.

Anyway, I’m not really all that concerned about the porch’s future…says the woman who doesn’t have to do anything. I know that he’ll figure it out, and it’ll look good. Just like always. And at some point, I’ll have to stop calling it the porch….

Katie is really enjoying this whole process, aside from the noise that she says is just “so very loud.” With her ears covered, she says, “Mama, I think I hear the puppies playing under the porch.”

No, baby, you hear Daddy ripping up the porch.

*****

A couple of Friday nights ago, we headed into town for some Friday night pizza at The Pizza Hut. I called ahead to put in our order, so that it would be ready when we got there. Did you know you could do that? It’s like The Ritz meets The Hut, right in our little town. I almost reconsidered the Carhartt and the baseball cap because of all the fanciness.

The woman on the phone asked me “How many?” I told her three. From the back seat, as I tried to place our order, I was assaulted by a tiny-voiced small person hollering: “Mama, it’s four! Four! We need four seats! Four! Mama, we’re four!”

When I finally hung up: “What about Baby Brother’s seat?”

I mean, how sweet is that? I hope a few years down the road doesn’t turn this scene into her wanting Baby Brother to just wait in the car while we eat our pizza goodness. Here’s hoping she always wants him to have a seat and wants to always be the one to “hold him so tight…see how I squeeze?”

Brother, beware.

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