ProudMary

I think I'll go for that massage now

When is that Dyson guy going to invent a coffee maker that won't get completely clogged with a single ground, causing it to erupt in angry burning hotness all over everything everywhere?

Anyway.

Cap'n back on premises:    check. 
Niece back home:    nearly check.
Children on antibiotics:    two.
Business intact:    check.
Inches of snow:    10
House on the market:    check.
Offers on the house:    one.
Serious offers on the house:    zero.

It occurred to me yesterday that before we did this, before we ditched our jobs and moved to the country to do our own thing, that I carried an unspoken assumption that once I left the city I would somehow acquire all the spare time and sanity that I ever desired.  Instead, there are more plates spinning, and zero time for moi.  And still, I couldn't actually tell you what actually fills my day.  Kids, yes.  Customers, yes.  Cleaning, yes.  It doesn't sounds like much, but boy howdy, it's a lot. 

So, yes, the Cap'n did a knock up job in the city and was back in record time.  And my niece visited to help pick up the slack and was incredibly helpful.  If I could snap my fingers and have anything right now, it would be a 16-year-old daughter who is so thoughtful and eager to help.

Last week poor BabyEve came down with a nasty case of RSV, and nearly landed in the hospital.  For four days she just sort of checked out...distant gaze...nothing sweet, just misery.  She's doing much better now, and it's amazing to have her back. 

Whilst hovering and fretting over BabyEve, I knew Poopies had Yet Another Virus, but figured it was business as usual.  I knew he was carrying a fever, but figured it was just a new cold settling in, and would pass like the others.  I knew he had been coughing for awhile, but honestly, we're all always at some stage of a cough.  It wasn't until his eyes got all pink, puffy and glazed and he stopped eating that I realized something was up.  The Cap'n took him to the doctor yesterday and apparently got a few raised eyebrows at the severity of the Pooper's illness.  I feel so bad, he was really sick.  To be fair, BabyEve's illness was far more dangerous, but it pulled all my attention and I forgot about my poor little guy, quietly festering in the corner.  Poor.  Little.  Sweet.  (and now skinny) Pooper.  Ugh.

Solo Mio

So, somehow it happened again.  The Cap'n packed it up last Tuesday and headed down to the city for another stint as Renovation Man.  This time for only a couple/few weeks, we'll see.  It's apparently going really well, lots of good progress. 

My end is a bit harder to manage this time around.  Although Poopies is way better company than he was a couple of years ago, he now realizes that his Daddy is missing, and so looks to me for extra support, though I'm stretched a bit thin these days between BabyEve, the business, the ice storm we got this weekend, and the ungodly awful flu I came down with the day the Cap'n left, of course.  Yeah, Tuesday night was one of those harrowing nights you don't soon forget.  I had this crazy fever, chills, clingy boy, crying baby, and I couldn't even stand up to get either one of them anything.  Thank god for breastfeeding, at least Eve was covered.  Poopies got a chocolate muffin tossed at him for dinner, so he was pleased.

The reason for the madness is that we're actually getting rid of the house in the city.  Putting it on the market and hoping to sell it by June, partly for tax reasons and partly to help finance a better living situation up here.  Yes, I know the housing market is in the toilet.  Yes, I've already been thoroughly counseled on what a bad time this is to sell by nearly everyone I've told.  I know.  But, the NYC real estate market is different from the rest of the country and the house actually hasn't depreciated at all, it's just about the same value it was probably about a year ago.  So, that's my rant.  And, with all the Cap'n's good work, the house actually is quite beautiful and the perfect steal for the right person.  Given the neighborhood, I'm very sure people will be happily surprised once they get inside.  I'm actually really sad to see it go.  It has finally realized the beauty I always knew was there, but never got to live in.  I only got to enjoy the cockroach and the squalor phases.  It seems a shame to work so hard to shine up a little gem and then just leave it behind. 

So, yeah, it's been hard.  It was impossible not to get that familiar knot in my stomach when the Cap'n drove away at 4 am.  Even though I know this is for a much shorter time, I just assumed I would never have to return to those days of lonely, blank survival.  The sickness and ice storm were just icing (ha!) on the cake. 

But, my salvation arrives tomorrow in the form of my lovely niece from Texas.  My generous sister was gracious enough to loan her out to me, so not only will I have an extra set of hands around, but I'll get to know my niece a bit too, which is really cool.

Where's the Poop

You just don't know the joys of preschooler-wrangling until you find yourself crawling around your house in a complete frenzy, nose as guide, looking for the misplaced product of your child's anus.  And he's no help, telling me that it's on the couch (it's not), on the TV, on the ceiling, etc.  Add to that a front office where any customer might appear and be insulted by either the olfactory long note: P-O-O-P, or the panic-stricken screaming three-year-old in the background: "I'm pooping!  I'm pooping!" who finds himself in the unfortunate situation of not wanting to poop in either a pair of diapers, or in any sort of potty.  Try to do it and not say "SHIT" at any point in time.  Try.

Den of Ill

From the day a child is born, you do everything in your power to steer clear of all danger; vehicular, recreational, bacterial, viral, all of it.  You don't let him play with others when their upper lip is slick with snot, you wash hands, Purell probably too much, on and on and on with the protecting and the fretting. And then when they're three (or so) you toss them into the veritable vat of microbes called preschool and wish them a good day.  Nice.

Since Poopies has started preschool not even two months ago, he's had at least six colds and the Cap'n and I have caught about half that.  If there are any veteran moms out there...how long does the insanity last?  Because we're getting nothing done, sludging through our days, barely looking forward to getting better for a few days before the next invasion.  I do wish parents would be more discerning when determining whether or not to send their kids to school.  I understand that you can't dodge work for a little runny nose (though I hate to see that too, frankly, when it's having lunch next to my momentarily healthy little guy) but when I see totally miserable, glassy-eyed, flu-stricken kids trying their best to forge on, it makes me mad.  I know it sucks to miss work when you're not even sick, but it is so not cool to your kid to make them do anything other than lie on the couch and watch movies when they're that sick, and obviously not fair to the others that will suffer from being exposed to your little viral incubator. At the preschool Halloween party on Wednesday there was a little boy dressed as a chicken that was barely vertical and clearly very sick.  I can only assume that our current mini-flu is courtesy of the poor little chicken...oh my, does that make this Avian Flu? 

As Is

At nearly five months after delivery, and despite the last month of working out with diligent intensity, I have become downright perturbed at my current clothing situation.  So, I stopped by Target on my way home from BabyEve's* appointment yesterday to purchase something for my lower half that neither needs to be hiked up every 45 seconds (maternity pants), nor gives the dreaded "muffin top" effect (pre-maternity pants).  And was perplexed to learn that I am no longer part of the population that can wear those sexy jeans with the 1" long zipper, the hip, fun "low-rise" jean.  No, those jeans are reserved for women who still have their original equipment, in its original condition, those who have not selflessly handed over their taught, lean bodies for the sake of their oblivious children. 

I thought I was all cool after Poopies, I had escaped his pregnancy with nary a stretch mark, and I still looked pretty good all things considered.  Well, somehow sweet BabyEve did a number on me and it's a pretty sad state of affairs I have to say.  I hope once I slender down a bit more it will improve, but I'm not terribly optimistic.  There seems to be extra....skin.  Ugh.  Anyway, it came down to either more "muffin top" or the 9" zipper, full-coverage, huge-assed-with-the-pockets-up-high "Mom" jean (which actually was pretty flattering waist-wise I'm sorry to say), and nothing in between.  So I slunk out of there totally empty-handed.  This pants thing is much more complicated than before.

*yes, we call her "Baby Eve," nearly all the time, I'm afraid.  I don't know when it will stop, possibly after it gets shortened to "Baby" for simplicity's sake, and we all go to a mountain resort for the summer and she falls in love with a dance instructor and helps his friend get an abortion, thereby disappointing us but then proving her maturity and fearlessness in a sensational closing dance number where she finally nails that tricky lift.

Speaking of BabyEve, and despite the whole body-ruining thing (kidding!), she is totally awesome.  Very gorgeous, extremely chatty and so, so sweet.  It's amazing to see her little person emerge, to look into her eyes and know that we're on our way to a clumsy little toddler, and a hilarious preschooler.  By Poopies-comparison, she's very fair with strawberry-blond hair, and still has her blue eyes, which I hope--more than I should--that she keeps.  Beyond the fact that she's so pretty the way she is, I am strangely insecure that the Cap'n's fair family looks upon my brown hair and eyes as genetic mud, mucking up what would have been fair grandchildren.  Which of course they probably don't, but they honestly could because it's frankly true!  But enough of my chromosomal insecurities...

Poopies started preschool last month, and it's going pretty well I'd say.  We learned early on that the Cap'n needed to do the drop-off, since me doing it meant a really bad scene with lots of tears and pants-grabbing. He seems to be getting along with the other kids, though I have yet to see him engaged in actual play with anyone other than the teachers, but I know this will come with time.  It's not for lack of encouragement.  Every day I ask him if he has any new friends, and every day I am told with authoritative inflection (including hand gestures) how "one boy got very, very angry" with him, which I was initially flabbergasted about, but since we get the same story every day and he doesn't seem very upset about it, I am left to conclude that either he really is getting some boy mad at him constantly and that it doesn't faze him in the least, or that on the day that the mad boy incident really happened he got a spectacular reaction from me, and so decided that he would repeat it every day to elicit extreme motherly concern.  Part of me wants to roll my eyes and put on a knowing smile when he starts on the same story again, but on the other hand, I don't want appear blasé about being told about his day, and don't want to discourage him from recounting the day's events (real or otherwise) and so I've continued the impressed concern, and the motherly advice to stay away from angry boys.  I am a sucker for manipulation, always have, always will.

Lend a Hand

I need some help, and my anonymous friends in the computer are the perfect solution.  We've found a name for the wee lass that we both agree that we love.  We...just don't know how the rest of the world will respond. 

Tell me, and don't laugh...do you think it's a crime to name a baby "Cher"?  Should we worry about constant comparisons to the diva herself, despite her fading popularity?  Because, I doubt if in 10 years our little girl or any of her peers will be much aware of an old but stretched former celebrity who, let's face it, other than inspire a lot of drag queens, didn't really achieve all that much in her musical or on-screen efforts.  But of course at the same time I don't want to doom the poor girl to a lifetime of hating her name, and I suppose us by extension.

So, go ahead, be blunt, be honest.  What do you think?

Impending Business

Wow.  Some sweet person sent me a comment just to see if I was ok, presumably since I haven't posted since before we all learned that duct tape is useless in at least one respect.  I was blown away by the sweetness of that, truly (by the comment, that is, I am decidedly less over-emotional about warts).  So, thanks, person!

So, what I've been doing, other than gestating, is mostly trying to figure out how the results of that particular project will occur, particularly on the day-of.  The logistics are killing me, frankly.  We seem to have unyielding responsibilities spilling from every pore, to the point that leaving for up to 12 hours is likely to result in our entire lives utterly unraveling.  There's the Pooper, the business, and the damn dogs, I'm less concerned about the damn cats.  Last time around, I delivered three weeks early, which has has translated to my need to make the necessary arrangements last approximately an entire month.  Everyone thinks I'm making a huge deal out of nothing, and I suppose that is more than likely.  I know it will all work out.  My poor mother has agreed to indulge me in regard to Poopies, thank god.  I only hope she realizes that she may need to wear several hats, some of which are rather unattractive.

And did I mention that we have some necessary renovations in mind before the baby comes?  Yeah.  Another elephant is added to the room.

We've got a wedding party here this weekend, not the bride and groom thank god, our digs are happily not chic enough to attract that kind of high-maintenance.  I usually dread wedding parties, what with their irons and hairdryers and snippy attitudes, but this is a good group, youngish (late 20s/early 30s) and laid back, just the way we like 'em.  I would like them all the more if they didn't all seem to resemble each other despite lack of family ties.  It's a little odd, and saps my confidence when they come in and start asking questions.  All the men are very tall, very thin and very pale.  They do have differing haircuts, but with me not being in the habit of mentally logging hairstyles, I'm a little behind. 

Seems like it's that way all over these days.

The State of Affairs

Ants!  There are suddenly so many ants in my house.  Why?  There is either a hidden picnic or at perhaps a stashed jar of jelly around here somewhere.  They are big and black and not very smart.  They seem to like my desk, and every time I'm sitting here at least one scuttles across my line of vision, and for some reason all of my typical humanist generous-to-all-small-creatures, gather-them-up-to-set-them-free instincts fly out the window and I want to crush their little bodies with a tissue and feel that horrible-yet-satisfying click.

Business-wise, we have snow.  Lots and lots of snow, and no one gives a damn.  Clearly, we are not the only ones who have given up on this Winter, the city-folk couldn't care less that we have oodles of it.  They are staying put and waiting for Spring.  So, all the digging and shoveling and paying for expensive plow-jobs is sort of squandered on our three customers this weekend, but whatever.  We're over wishing this season to be more cooperative, our eyes are just calmly trained on the magnolia buds outside, watching them plump and waiting for the glorious day that they emerge.

Poopies-wise, we have a little comedian on our hands.  He's discovered the joy of making us laugh, and will do anything, from asking for cookies for breakfast, to dramatic pratfalls, to straight-on tickling to make it happen.  He is totally hilarious, if not a bit weird, which we see as a good thing entirely.  When he's not vying for laughs, he's telling endless tales of what happened earlier in the day or week, which mostly consists of a scattering of words he knows filled in "um"s plus his typical gibberish, with adorable sighs, hand-clasps and pauses while he looks diagonally at the ceiling and thinks of the next silly bit.   He is also sleeping the whole night in his crib lately, which is sweet and kind thing for him to finally do.  I had really sort of had it with having to retrieve a 30-pound leech at 3 am every morning.

Baby-wise, I'm nearly 26 weeks along now, feeling good, feeling fine, if not a tad incapable of imagining what a little baby is going to do to our lives.  I recall feeling this way before Poopies' arrival, but this is a totally different game.  The Pooper is going to be sad.  And mad.  And I hate doing that to my favorite little person.  What really gets me is that I imagine that every bit that I dote on the baby and love her will be upsetting and resented by him.  It was so easy to love him, it was free and natural and there was no competition or bad feelings associated.  And I wish it could be the same this time around.  I know he will come around eventually, but initially he will hate it I'm sure, and he is such a loving, cuddly little boy I really hate to sully his feelings for me.

Plus, there is the sleeping situation, which I've finally accepted we will just have to feel out once the time comes.  I assume we will start with the baby in the bed, joined immediately by Poopies I'm sure, and will suffer through a few weeks or possibly months of that madness before we throw our couch out the window, moving our bed into the living room, thereby surrendering all hope of ever receiving visitors to our home, and giving up our room to "the kids."  We are still planning on starting a renovation that will add a second floor about a year from now, but the logistics of this between financing, town hall and questionable foundations is fairly defeating, I have to say.  Plus, doing all that work and still having seven-foot-ceilings on the first floor seems like an exercise in futility.

So, I've worked my way into a bit of a depressing endnote here, huh.  Well, we'll just end with a cute photo of our wooly winter boy, and call it a day:

When's Spring?

It's been a sad couple of days. 

The night before last, after a somewhat disappointing weekend business-wise, we just needed to get out of the house.  So, despite quickly-waning available funds and business to replace such extravagant outings, we decided to head into Woodstock for dinner.  I should preface this with that I had been a bit down that day, just blue for no real reason, let's blame the pregnancy hormones, which isn't anyone's fault but happens to bother some, although it frankly cannot be considered a news flash to anyone here that I can be moody at times.  Anyway.  Somehow during the course of dinner the Cap'n and I started to say increasingly acidic things to each other and it ended up being a "you make me feel ____" sort of conversation.  And I started crying.  And god, I LOATHE public crying.  But the tears wouldn't, couldn't stop, even when I really wanted them to, they kept coming all night, all through dinner, even after we returned home to sleep in separate rooms, so that I woke up the next morning all puffy and drained.  I do believe it must have been the hormones.

So, the next day we pretended all was well, and with only a minor speed bump in transit, had a really nice day touring one of the Vanderbilt mansions.  A pleasant diversion!  Good architecture and lavish furnishings really can put one in a better mood.

Then I returned home to an email from a college friend, a former roommate of mine whose wife was just a couple of weeks behind me in her pregnancy.  The subject line:  "A sad update..." made my heart skip a beat.  They lost their baby at 18 weeks, a little boy.   Something about problems with the placenta and the fluid.  I can only assume that they had to go through a delivery and everything.  I am just sick about it.  They've had more than their fair share lately with disease and death and it's just not fair. I don't know how you recover from something like that.  I can't imagine it.  Something about getting past the 12th week makes you feel like the pregnancy is iron-clad or something, and this was a painful reminder that nothing is guaranteed, not ever, and that I shouldn't take this baby's progress for granted.   Every kick and swish since then has been an anticipated affirmation.

Winter Bites

It has been the most unkind of weeks. 

Last Sunday, we discovered that the water main to one of the cottages had frozen, or had just generally crapped out, despite the fact that the cottage, along with every other room we had, was totally sold out for President's Week, which was rapidly approaching.  Various pipe-heating agendas were set in motion, including the purchase of $1000 worth of equipment that would thaw a frozen underground pipe, if that was indeed the problem, if only we could get a good connection to it, which was ultimately thwarted by a slightly busted shut-off valve, which I suspect may have been the culprit all along, since we started fooling with the beleaguered thing as soon as we started troubleshooting the problem. 

Sigh.  Then, in the midst of everything, Old Man Winter decided that we had been without snow for long enough and dumped two feet of it in 24 hours.  While the Cap'n toiled in the blizzard to get the water running, I unhappily juggled shoveling through mountains of snow, cleaning rooms we didn't get to last weekend for lack of a babysitter, and watching Poopies.  By the way, trying to clean a cottage while quelling every demand of an increasingly opinionated toddler, so as to avoid the constant complaining, is surprisingly exhausting and definitely enraging.  Thomas & His Friends helped out quite a bit.  And so the Cap'n and I worked and worried nonstop for four days.  Plus, I'm sort of kind of getting really pregnant, which makes everything harder, more cumbersome, achey and tiring than normal.

Ultimately, the Cap'n saved the day by running a bypass to the cottage from---unbelievably---an outdoor faucet, run directly to the cottage's main water source pipe, which was insulated to the gills, and through which we've kept the water constantly moving by purposely sabotaging the flapper in the toilet, and causing it to leak.  Ironically, the snow hides the line so that no one is the least bit the wiser.  We didn't really think it was going to work.  The test was the night before our guests arrived, when it got down to six degrees.  We laid in bed from 4:30 to 5 am, not knowing the other was awake, wondering if we would find a useless ice-filled hose when we went to look.  As the Cap'n went to check, I literally crossed every appendage, but given our luck this week, knew that he would return with pain in his face. Instead I got an exuberant thumbs up.  We were downright giddy. Hugging, laughing.  Like we'd won a prize, or something.  Insanity.  We were saved and so were the three reservations we had taken for the week, which would only just barely cover the cost of the materials.  I still can't believe the Cap'n pulled it so well out of the fire.  Bless this man, his ingenuity, and of course his plumbing skills.

Plus, we learned that our water rate has increased over 1000% to one of the highest in the country.  I cannot even get started on that, except that we use a lot of it, and that it is a most unwelcome new expense.

On the personal front, we have still not decided on a name for the wee lass, which is bothering me for some reason, even though we have months left.  We met so easily eye-to-eye on Poopie's name, it was an immediate home run.  This time around it's not so simple.  Partly because the Cap'n has a difficult last name to pair with any name ending in an "A" sound, which is a damned lot of them, and partly that despite stellar plumbing skills and good taste in practically every other regard, my husband seems to want either a poodle or a floozy for a daughter, and has come up with such winners as Trixie, Fifi and Lola.  Me, I like Renee (sort of boring, but it sounds smashing with the last name), and Eden, which I love for purely non-biblical reasons.  I have to put out there that while it's true that I hadn't heard of the latter name before coming to know about Mrs. Kennedy, and despite that I think that she is the coolest, it is not a "named after" situation.  So, tell me what you think about these, if you care, if you dare.