From the Mixed-Up Weekend Files

Exhaustion and boredom and gratitude and overwhelming surges of every emotion known to man (or woman) would sum up the last few days of this past week.

Starting with the whole "Drama Tuesday" that included a sideways Pebbles and a dying father-in-law I have rocketed through the rest of the week with Himself's last-minute gold-plated (or cost enough it should have been) flight to (and 5-day stay in) the Pacific Northwest, a car rental employee who hooked Himself up with a 5-day rental for a total of $72, including tax, twice-a-day chiropractic visits (which, even with the co-pay each day, are still cheaper than whatever my share of a c-section would be), another midwife/OB consult (in tandem, since my midwife leaves for vacation in three days and doesn't handle breech babies anyway), a massive work project that has consumed me, my intern leaving, an inability to sleep or eat much, a networking gig I had to staff, a toddler whose vocabulary has grown to include the mysterious phrase "shame on you!", a near record-breaking heat wave and a house set to self-destruct.

This morning, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. I'd felt very little fetal movement the night before and none in the quiet hours of the obscenely early morning. Because Pebbles position (while back to head down on Thursday) is tenuous and there is some concern regarding the cord position, my instructions are to "Head to L&D the minute your contractions become regular, your water breaks or you stop feeling movement." I lie in bed for an hour, wondering who on earth I'd call at 4:30 in the morning to watch Woodstock while I drove myself to L&D for lack of fetal movement. I then realized that I'd left two days' of kitchen mess, and there was no way I could possibly admit anyone to the house who could witness that.

So I got up. I scrubbed the kitchen, re-organized two cupboards, unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher and cleaned the guest bathroom before Woodstock decided to get up at 6:30 a.m. - a full hour early. By this point, one thing had led to another, and I needed to get her fed, dressed and presentable if I needed a sitter. She then "helped" me water the lawn, sweep and half-heartedly mop the kitchen/dining room, straighten the upstairs rooms and throw the kitchen rugs in the washing machine.

By 8 a.m., I was ready for a nap. Besides, I still had to try the sugary drink (oj) and food trick and lie down on my left side to get the baby to move. I fell asleep on the couch before Pebbles even woke up. Woodstock, free to roam the house, got bored with the Food Network programming I had selected and wandered into the dining room. I woke up 20 minutes later covered in spread-out napkins. Woodstock, who was sitting next to me calmly said, "Go to bed, mama. Woodstock cover you up." Hard to be too grumpy about picking up 20 napkins and re-folding them (in addition to the trail of napkins left from the dining room to the living room) when one's child has done it to make sure one is "covered up" for one's nap.

With slightly more energy (and slightly less sanity), I decided to quickly tackle the basement bathroom and take a shower before I started calling to find a sitter. Mostly because I really just wanted Pebbles to move on her own. I straightened the family room, ran a batch of towels through the wash, scrubbed the basement bath (minus the tub - my belly is too big to effectively lean over the tub to scrub it) and vacuumed. I threw the last stray items into my hospital bag - just in case. I showered, much to the delight of Woodstock, who kept pulling back the shower curtain to peer through the sheer plastic curtain and exclaiming, "Mama's naked!" while giggling.

At that point, it was 11:30 a.m. and Woodstock was starving. Feeling the need to make sure she was fed before I called anyone, I made lunch for both of us. She sat in "Grover's chair" across from me at the table, chin resting on its surface, and kept up a running commentary. I focused on eating more than I had at breakfast.

Whether it was the work or the food and the nearly 60 ounces of water consumed in a few hours' time, Pebbles woke up, did a dance and stayed fairly active for half an hour.

The relief was palpable. Woodstock and I celebrated by taking a long early afternoon nap.

I'm now trying to get up the energy to inflate and fill Woodstock's pool for an afternoon diversion (curses to Himself who couldn't get the $6 plastic kiddie pool and had to get the fancy inflatable one that requires an army - not to mention a whole lot of patience - to set up).

It's the strangest week/weekend I've had in recent memory.

Beware of 4 a.m.

One should beware of online activities at 4 a.m., especially if one's wallet is in reach.

This morning I woke up early, as usual. What wasn't usual was that I woke up at 3:30 a.m. Normally "early" involves a 5 in the hour. I had acid reflux (again) that was so bad I'd gross any of my 2.7 readers out if I was to describe it, so I'll refrain. Suffice it to say, it was miserably bad - bad enough that sleep just wasn't going to happen again. At 3:45, I heaved myself out of bed.

Since I was in a class all day yesterday, I logged on to check my work e-mail - in case anything specatularly interesting had happened that I just might have to deal with before I showed up at 9 a.m. While I was at it, I decided to browse for a few things we need, that we've been putting off because I just didn't have the energy to go to a furniture store and "browse."

So I browsed online. Read reviews, compared prices, clicked on buttons and made mathematical calculations in my sleep-addled brain.

By 4:30 a.m., my online shopping cart contained one full-sized mattress, one full-sized box spring, one bed frame and one 5.0 cubic foot chest freezer. Grand total: $530, plus tax and delivery ...I think the 5 showing up in my total (instead of in my awakening hour) was what did it ...

I woke up enough to realize that the delivery charge was more than it would cost us to rent a pick-up (or cajole a neighbor) for the day, and Himself and the two teenage boys inhabiting our house (Grover and Nephew) this week are more than enough manpower to move a full-sized bed and a small freezer into the 70s palace.

Never mind though. That wasn't enough to stop me, I reserved it for in-store pick up on Saturday.

Beware of 4 a.m. - suddenly your excuse for not buying Himself corn dogs (lack of freezer space) will no longer fly and your guests (and Grover) will have somewhere to sleep besides a trusty air mattress.

And your bank account will still be stinging.

When There's Love at Home

As a child, whenever tensions rose at our house my mother would start singing (or worse yet, make us sing with her), "When There's Love at Home."

To this day, the hymn still grates on my nerves (enter big bolt of lightening right now to strike me down - I'm sure that is not terribly appropriate to admit). There is nothing wrong with it, it just brings up memories of being annoyed at having to set aside teenage indignation to join in singing a hymn in order to forget being upset.

Today, however, I thought about it as I went about my day. Particularly the stanza that says, "Peace and plenty here abide, Smiling sweet on ev'ry side, Time doth softly, sweetly glide, When there's love at home." I was particularly reflective today, because I had a good day. I got up early, studied my Sunday School lesson over my own quiet breakfast, prayed, got the house in order, got myself ready, got dinner mostly prepped and felt good. Really good. Full and productive and ... full of peace.

The first sight that greeted me upon arriving home was Woodstock, her blonde little head in the dining room window, nose pressed to the glass (I have a new straight back chair that she has claimed as her own and has now become her perch for bird and truck watching out the front window). The second sight that greeted me was a pot of boiling potatoes on the stove. The house was mostly unchaotic (clean is a word I've wiped from my vocabulary - unchaotic is what I aim for these days). Himself was in a good mood.

I was less harried than usual thinking of dinner and bedtime routine and this and that. I failed to even have a near meltdown when the broiler element went out, leaving mostly raw chicken to be dealt with. My anxiety levels were surprisingly low, given the complicated day I had had (and the fact that even with all my careful prep, dinner was still mostly raw an hour after arriving home).

It was if God himself were saying, "You gave me some time this morning, I am going to let it fill your day," and gave me Love at Home - exactly what I needed. Peace and plenty did abide here tonight, and I'm writing it down so I remember it the next time my "natural woman" takes over, tries to be master of the universe, forgets to kneel and study in humility and wonders why the world is falling apart at the seams.

In the cottage there is joy,
When there's love at home;
Hate and envy ne'er annoy
When there's love at home.
Roses blossom 'neath our feet,
All the earth's a garden sweet,
Making life a bliss complete,
When there's love at home.

Love at home, indeed. And if having that means upping my resolve to do better at my daily study, I can certainly stand to put in the effort.

There But For the Grace of God Go I

There are some days when I truly believe it is only by the Grace of God that I am still functioning. The last 18 months have been a cacophony of static, a rollercoaster ride worthy of inclusion at Cedar Point and a sensory overload that threatens to drive even the sanest person into an asylum.

Last night was a particularly challenging night. I got home late. Woodstock was *thisclose* to starving to death upon arrival. Dinner (5-spice rolls) stuck to the steamer so I ended up pan-frying bits of rolls instead of actual rolls. The kitchen proves time and time again to be too small - not enough workspace - and after 4 years of great kitchen space (even the Hobbit Hole had more counters), my patience with inadequate kitchens is shot. I was trying to listen to the debate and actually make a (ha!) educated decision. I have something funky going on with my eye - it's red (but not pink eye) and sore and I've had the same massive headache for three days. My hip and bruised rear from Saturday's tumble down the stairs were giving me fits. Himself, as he does every Tuesday night, was working late.

Once dinner was over, all the rice was scrubbed out of Woodstock's hair and she was snoozing peacefully in bed, I tackled the budget for the seventh time in as many days. It doesn't matter that I have managed multi-million dollar budgets before - having to reconcile to the last penny - I cannot seem to manage my own. We're working on the Dave Ramsey 'Financial Peace' plan - which is great but might just kill one of us before the end of the course.

Himself came home to find jazz music blaring loudly (I forgot to turn off the radio after the debates and had totally tuned it out while giving the Evil Eye to my spreadsheet), me almost in tears, a pile of papers and calculations and bills and a spreadsheet with too many colums to count - covering the dining room table like the first snow of the season. My head hurt. My eye hurt. My hip hurt. My pride hurt. I wanted to know how Himself's check is always big enough and mine never is - even though our incomes are reversed.

More than anything, I justed wanted the blasted cleaning fairy to come and make the kitchen sparkle and Dave Ramsey himself (in all his wisdom) to figure out my budget mess and how come it just wouldn't balance (I should run for federal office - they can't balance budgets either - at least I wouldn't feel guilty). I wanted to curl up in a ball (on my unbruised right side) and cry myself to sleep.

Eventually, I got to bed - the dishes half done and the budget done enough to get us through one more day. Before I drifted off, I knelt in prayer and asked in total selfishness, "just give me the strength to get up tomorrow and do this again - and the funds with which to do it."

This morning, I got a reimbursement check from the county clinic that treated Woodstock's pneumonia in the middle of nowhere. I got notice that my raise is going through and will be included on next week's check. Two other reimbursement checks came in. My review was stellar - and I was reassured that we "aren't going anywhere." (The Office is a nonprofit funded by investments - you can imagine my relief at those words).

My hip hasn't hurt all day, my latest online project is successful and I'm going to Florida in November (it's for work, but it doesn't snow there - happy days!).

That which doesn't kill me, makes me a better person when the sun is shining.

Shiny New Life

I am known, for better or worse, to surround myself with drama - typically not of my own creation, though sometimes when it gets really dull, people wonder.

Through the last six months of "head shrinking" - I've realized that I am an adrenaline junkie. I don't know how to function in a mode that is not the physiological equivalent of "fight or flight." I have done a fair amount of reading about the "chronic state of phsyiological stress" lately. In short, something has to change.

In the past several months, I've made strides to begin healing the frenzied anxiety-black velvet curtain of depression nonsense. I've worked at not caring so much about some things. I've tried to assuage the guilt of not saying "yes" every time - or doing everything I should be - because "should" is subjective.

And the drama continues.
* I was forced/chose to change jobs ... it was a good decision, but has come with a month's worth of continued drama, lawyers, legal advice, covering my rear end, analyzing and discovering that much of what I thought wasn't actually true.

* In an attempt to gain control and reduce the anxiety, we moved. The Hobbit Hole was up for sale. I couldn't continue to focus on healing and reducing the almost-daily panic attacks when I was worried about what parts of myself were exposed when people came through the house or how clean it was. But moving in and of itself, even just next door, was enough frenzied nonsense to send me into orbit. Especially since it happened CONCURRENTLY with the job drama (timing was not planned that way).

* Son came for the summer. Surprisingly, it turned out to be a pleasant experience. But he came the day after I quit my job, two weeks before moving day. One can only imagine the insanity.

With the maelstrom of changes, I haven't done so well at focusing on those things I need to be focusing on. There is no routine, no settled contentment. Little things turn into bigger mini-dramas overnight.

We set up the washer/dryer yesterday. The washer was a breeze compared to last year's set-up. The dryer, however, required an unplanned trip to Home Depot, 2 hours and a fair amount of "what the hell were we thinking" conversations between Himself and I - the two people least equipped to be involved in any kind of appliance anything on earth.

This morning, Baby Girl woke up with diarrhea of epic proportion. I could smell the result halfway down the hall, before I even entered her room. It was 5:45 a.m. I finished the batch of laundry I'd started before bed, picked her up (no way even she could sleep through that stench), cleaned her, changed her and dumped her back into bed with Himself. I embarked on another three loads of laundry - because, of course, the soiled pajamas, changing pad and towel were not even close to being able to be washed together.

And ... a batch of jam. JAM?! On a work day? When Baby Girl has caused an additional mess to clean and there is laundry in various stages of "done"?

But I wanted to learn and do new things this summer. Canning was part of it. A perfect storm of house capable of providing off-season storage space for the massive water-bath canner and free fruit provide the opportunity. Still, jam on a work day morning was out of the question - except yesterday's drama prevented me from doing anything with the two boxes of apricots taking up the microscopic amount of floor space in the kitchen ... and the top ones, from the top of the tree, were rapidly ripening beyond the point of no return.

I had no choice.

New job. New house. Annual visit from Son. Baby Girl's first encounter with diarrhea. Canning. Picking. Installing appliance(s). Packing. Unpacking. Waiting a very long time for a paycheck. Full-time work after a three-week hiatus. Five loads of laundry in 12 hours. Preparation for next week's camping trip. And on and on and on.

Even the shiny new life is wearing me out.

Somebody Stop Me, Please

This domestic stuff is getting to be a little insane.

So you already know about the water bath canner (which arrived yesterday!) ... but the new (to us) house is, well, doing things to me ... as in making me think of things my domestically challenged (and loving it) self normally shudders about.

This morning found me out picking apricots off the tree that is half in the Hobbit Hole's yard and half in our new yard. Our former landlords very generously offered whatever apricots we wanted. I'm not going to argue. After all, apricots are food - food that I NEVER buy in the store, as they are ridiculously overpriced.

Not only that, but Himself was out mowing the lawn at the same time. I stood, bathed in the warm sun, trying not to die of grass fumes (grass = asthma issues) and thought, "we're turning into quite the domestic palace these days."

Of course, the thought of how odd Himself looked mowing the lawn also made me laugh. In nearly 9 1/2 years I've known Himself, I've never seen him mow a lawn. Mostly because we didn't have one to mow. To be fair, Himself has never seen me mow a lawn either, but I am highly allergic to grass, so he's likely to NEVER see me mow a lawn.

I went back inside and thought about all the little "extras" I needed to organize the new space.

Things are getting weird around here.

Because Someday I'm Going to Run Out of Underwear

There are times when I wish that we were a little handier.

Sara: Himself, we need to get the washer/dryer hooked up no later than Monday night.

Himself: I work late all week.

Sara: Um, not a good excuse.

Himself: What's the rush?

Sara: Baby Girl is on her last clean pair of pajamas. She has also ensured that nothing I have worn in the last week can be worn again, by marking her territory with snot. And someday I'm going to run out of clean underwear. (Not to mention the fact that the move has meant I have gone through rags and dishcloths like 5-year-olds go through toilet paper).

Himself: Oh.

Is it just Himself or do men not think about the ramifications of not having a washing machine, especially when one's house is inhabited by an infant and a pre-teen boy? Seriously.

To Himself's credit - he got out of setting up the washer/dryer last year, but he heard about all the horror stories, so he's a little worried. Then again, last year the washer/dryer was set up by a blind guy and a pregnant woman. The washer is 250 pounds and involves small parts. You have to give us some credit.

Wish us luck.

Attack of the Mormon Woman Isanities

No secret, we started moving last Saturday. And by started, I really mean STARTED, as in I've spent at least 2 hours every day since (usually 3-4) dragging more stuff from the Hobbit Hole over to the new house and cleaning. The kitchen floor alone took me 45 minutes to mop this morning - not because it was dirty-gross or huge, but because nothing I do makes the bluish linoleum look clean. Ever.

While my kitchen is more or less unpacked (More=all the spices, baking goods, pots-n-pans, utinsels are put away in their proper place; Less=the salad plates, all the bowls, some knives and plastic containers and all the pantry items remain to be found), it is still a contortionist's dream come true, as there are boxes and bags and random things (chains for the car's tires in the kitchen? Really)EVERYWHERE. It's what happens when you move with mostly male help.

At the same time, a woman I have a great deal of respect for is on bedrest with a touch-and-go pregnancy. Being a Mormon Woman, I am a firm believer in the necessity of meals brought in. Even if one has a husband who can cook. Especially when one has a child. So, I volunteered, with the caveat that I had to actually FIND the kitchen first, which would take me until today at least.

There is just one problem: I hadn't gone grocery shopping in a month (other than sending Himself to buy the occassional gallon of milk). So last night, I dragged Himself to the store. He moaned and spent his time adding boxes of rice pudding, maple syrup and other things not on the list as "surprises" (which was definitely a "surprise" when the total bill was $15 more than I had calculated in my head.

This morning, I cut up the veggies and steamed them, so they'd be ready to toss into the sauce for the main dish when I got home. I stuck the can (yes, unopened - no time to look for the can opener) of mandarin oranges in the fridge to chill for the salad. I gave Himself the chicken breasts to grill so they would be ready for me to heat with the sauce this evening.

Then I went to start the cupcakes. All was well until I realized that I buy eggs at Costco. I haven't been to Costco in a month either. I have no eggs. Rather than use my mom's nifty substitute of Knox gelatin and water for eggs and end up ruining the good chocolate going into the cupcakes, I abandoned that project and vowed to make a mad dash by the store on the way home from work.

So now dinner is in varying states of preparation, my kitchen is in varying states of situational distress and I am in varying states of insanity.

Why do I do this to myself?

For those curious, tonight's menu includes:
Penne in a tomato cream sauce (with grilled chicken)- thanks to Diana & Pedro for the recipe and the first introduction to this dish!
Mandarin Spinach Salad with Poppyseed Dressing
Chocolate Cream Cheese Cupcakes

S-P-A-C-E

Seven years ago, I moved into a 900 sf one-bedroom apartment. It was perfect for a single, living-alone person. When Himself moved in, it was still okay. It had a dining room and a cute balcony and was 1/2 mile from work.

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The next apartment was a 1,200 sf three-bedroom, 1.5-bathroom apartment. We actually lived there for free because two of Himself's Navy buddies wanted a) to collect BAH (housing allowance) and b) a place to keep their stuff while they were out to sea. Since one cannot collect housing allowance without having a house, even though they paid $400/month to rent, they ended up with an extra $300/month in their pockets. Thank you, Uncle Sam.

Anyway, said apartment, even though it was on very grand-sounding "Malibu Palms Dr." was the closet thing to a ghetto I hope I ever live in. Seriously. It had NO good things about it. The worst things were a bathroom with no outlets and 18" of counter space in the kitchen.

Then there came The Palace, a brand-new, 1,000 sf, 2-bed, 2-bath heaven of two-tone walls, crown molding, 6' windows, 9' ceilings, a soaking tub, the greatest apartment kitchen ever, fitness center, pool ... I loved it. It drove me crazy the living space was all one room, but after the ghetto, not such a bad deal. Of course, it was more than twice what we'd paid for any other dwelling ever. But it wasn't quite in Outer Darkness, the commute wasn't horrible, and I did get a discount.

You can imagine, then, the Hobbit Hole's glory - 7' ceilings (5'10" where there was a bulkhead involved), no linen closet and oh, in a basement. But it had some redeeming qualities - a great storage room, a decent (if eccentric) kitchen and a great backyard.

Yet for all of these places, there have been two things I've always longed for - enough space to not have to look at the Christmas decor year-round and space for guests.

My anxiety goes into overdrive when we have overnight guests - because everywhere we've ever lived since my apartment 7 years ago has a single living space - and "open" floor plan, where everyone in the house must pileontopofeachotherlikethis. Everyone is in the way. The TV blares, people in another corner talk over it. Any kids involved go nuts.

Not very condusive to someone who needs a 4' radius of personal space at any given time.

But THIS move, a 1,500 sf 2-level duplex has space. A single-car garage (which I will never park in for fear of not being able to get OUT of the car), a basement storage room. Decent closets. A family room. A dining room. A SEPARATE living room. A backyard. A guest bedroom/bath.

Himself would tell you that the cabinets are suspect (read: Brady Bunch-era) and the windows are cheap (same deal). There is no pantry. But I am in awe as I unpack. There are spaces to store things logically. Skis, Christmas, outgrown baby gear in one place. Board games (all 30+ of them) in another. Food storage in another.

And separate gathering spaces - for kids, adults, whoever. Just in time for gas to be at record highs and too expensive for anyone to come visit.

Figures.