Warning: Extended First World Rant Session

I had resolved to have a good attitude about our disaster recovery process. After all, we have insurance, everything will be fixed eventually, I have a house, yadda yadda.


Well, that good attitude lasted until about Tuesday.


Apparently I am a diva of the first world. And while we're not even close to third world living standards, sheesh. It sure feels like that to pampered me.



The "picnic" approach was fun for a while, but it stinks feeding four children every meal on these dirty floors. At least two of them end up wearing more than half their meal. It's a pain washing the few dishes we're using by hand in the laundry room. It's a schlep having to go to the garage for every single drink request. And I have always enjoyed cooking, but I really MISS it now. I LIKE feeding my kids decent meals with a vegetable in proximity, whether they eat it or not. Tulsa's very limited take out options are getting old already. And yes, we could eat out EVERY meal, but loading up four kids three times a day would make me even CRAZIER.


It stinks not knowing where everything is (although we did rescue the camera. After PVT came home the other day and discovered the bottle opener was packed away behind the barriers, he took about one minute to slash through.)



So we have been living largely upstairs. And while we have a lovely, spacious second story, having four kids, one large mama and one largish dog up there for hours on end does get a little claustrophobic.


I wouldn't have done too well as a pioneer woman, or a resident of the Kenyan slums, now, would I? Sigh. I'm trying not to complain, but I know.


I AM.


Sorry.



Back to our sunnier, more optimistic programming soon.

HazMat Tents and Flat Shoes

Um. I am a bit shell shocked today. The disaster people came, packed up our first floor, and put zipper plastic barriers to various rooms; sort of like the makeshift medical tents I remember seeing in various disaster movies.

Let's hope our plastic sheets don't end up splattered in blood.

And I can't take pictures to show you, because my camera is packed. Somewhere. Behind the plastic barriers WITHOUT zippers.

I knew I was unprepared when one of the guys started packing up my (well, Colette's) diapers. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Naively, I thought I could cook a few more meals before the kitchen was dismantled; so tonight I made pasta (without a colander) with a shrimp/tomato sauce (without basil, salt or olive oil), and baked rolls (without pot holders).

I give up.

So as not to dwell on my undwellable dwelling, I offer you these:

Somewhere, in a parallel universe, people are shopping the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale. LUCKY BEEYOTCHES. And yes, these are flats. Get up off the floor! Yes, I do like them - I love the bling, the colors. Those of you who know me in real life know that I abhor flats and almost uniformly wear some sort of platform or heel to prop me up to the dizzying height of 4 feet 9 inches. But these...in my current state, I could make an exception.

It's called coping.

Of Blimps and Boobies

Thank you for all the name suggestions, you all! PVT and I will continue to toss these about, and hopefully come to a consensus once we see what this little girl looks like.

And hope that she doesn't look like, say, a Bertha.

Yesterday I hired a babysitter (I pay babysitters about $480 per hour, so relieved am I to return to a home where the children are still alive. As such, I get them rarely), drove 303 miles across town to the "cool" part of Tulsa (yes, it's relative), and went to my "Dream Makeover" consultation! How excited was I to show them what I wanted fixed!

The interviewer, a youngish girl, smiled brightly while I showed her my deflated, post-partum bosom (in a picture), talked about my stretch marks, and pulled out the piece de resistance, the leg of Frankenjill. I begin to sense something was wrong when she didn't even blink an eye at my leg. After about three minutes of my prattling, she gently interrupted me with a smile, and said, "I'm sorry. You're seven months pregnant? The timing just won't work out; we want to start the makeover in August, and you won't be ready. And...you look really good. How do you stay so small? You're really pretty. You should have seen me when I was pregnant...I was huge! Have you always been small?...." Et cetera.

Well, cripes. I felt like asking her if I should come back in a few weeks when I'm as big as the Hindenburg blimp wearing support hose, but didn't. So in essence I drove many miles and paid a babysitter a ransom-esque salary for some nice compliments. Which, don't get me wrong, are few and far between at this point.

So I guess I'll have to pay for boobs if I want them. And hope desperately that these veins fade.

In other non-news, a longtime reader of my blog (who will go unnamed until I can bribe her enough to allow me to post before and after shots) said my blog inspired her to get her OWN boobies. So she is! In August! I'm a bit envious, of course. And a bit mortified: some blogs inspire you to give to worthy causes; run a marathon; be a better parent.

I inspire people to have elective surgery.

I should at least get a referral fee.

Where You Get to Entertain ME

I apologize, my friends. The only thing I can bring myself to write about is...I'm TIRED of being pregnant. ZZZZZZ, right? Now don't get me wrong: I WANT to be pregnant until the baby is full term. I know that, unfortunately, the last trimester is part of the whole you-get-a-baby-at-the-end-of-all-this deal that I made with the gods. And I know that after I have this little one I'll look back and say, "Oh, THAT wasn't so bad!" (Please, please, smack me if I ever start waxing poetic about pregnancy around you in a few months.)

But suddenly it feels like time has slowed to a standstill. I thought today was Wednesday; it's TUESDAY. I thought we had a mere TWO weeks until school starts; alas, it's THREE. And when the Walgreen's clerk (that same one who told me I had to get fixed when I bought the pregnancy test back in January) asked me again when my due date was, she said, "Oh, you have a LONG way to go."

How I wanted to climb over the checkout counter and pull her white hair. But I restrained myself.

So since I have nothing but a whiny complaint to blog about, you get to entertain me: PVT and I need your suggestions for a lovely girls' name. We are partial to Frenchy names (but not so Frenchy that these native Okies can't pronounce it. Colette's grandfather calls her KAWL-ette, not Kuh-LETTE; sort of like KAWL-onoscopy. Terrible, terrible.) We don't want to her to be one of eight Addisons or Averys or Olivias or McKinleys in her class. We dislike the trend of boys' names or last names for girls.

So, suggestions? PVT currently likes Margaux, which I love too; regal and not terribly common. I am partial to Sylvie - spritely, pixie-like. I was terribly attached to Polly for a while (no, not Frenchy at all), but someone pointed out it didn't really fit well when her older sister's name is Colette.

So...tell me your favorite girls' names! Give me lots and lots...the more comments I have, the more moments will pass until I get to go to the Spa St. Francis and have this little girl.

Caution: You Are Now Entering the Twilight Zone

I am starting to go a little bonkers, my friends. I think it is the combination of nesting hormones in the throes of a domestic holocaust: it feels like we're a homeless family, squatting in an abandoned shanty with no carpets, ripped up baseboards, and wood floors that make you feel like you're shimmying over a tide pool. I can't bring myself to sweep floors that are going to be torn up in a week, so everything is covered in crumbs and a layer of a white dog hair.


Fortunately the construction begins in one week. For 30 - THIRTY! - days!

To complicate matters, I'm at the gestational point where every little blip I feel - or don't feel - makes me crazy. Last night the little girl was EXCRUCIATINGLY quiet during my "kick count" time. It took me over 30 minutes to feel 10 movements, when it usually it takes 10. She was quiet again this morning, so after imagining the worst for a few hours, I finally called the doctor; he said to lie down after eating something and then to count, but not to worry. Almost as soon as I lay down, she started happily bopping around. You would think I would remember these "what to do ifs..." with each pregnancy, but nature does such a good job of erasing the maternal memory, doesn't she?

Welcome to the scary, dark recesses of my warped, hormonal mind. Sorry, people.

Luckily the chickadees are oblivious to the fact that their mother needs a partial lobotomy. Their sole thought lately has been SOCCER: their upcoming seasons, the World Cup drama, their ATTIRE. Rory, he of the laser-sharp singular focus, has been obsessed with acquiring the matching SOCKS to his Seattle Sounder jersey and shorts. Alas, they do not sell the matching socks online. So we took an outing to the local soccer store, and got him socks that matched well enough.
This is a happy, happy kid.

Of course, you can't bring four kids shopping without buying EVERYONE a little something. So we got goalie gloves for brothers:
And while I have made fervent promises to myself that my daughter will NOT play soccer - how many games can one family attend in one Saturday? - indeed, that she will be a prima ballerina, I couldn't resist PINK cleats:

This child loves ANY sort of footwear.

Ah, and here's Will for good measure.
Now I'm off to research whether there is a crazy pill that is safe to take during pregnancy. Ta ta.

A Note to My Daughter on her 2nd Birthday

Two years ago today - Bastille Day (happily fortuitous for a family of Francophiles), you, Colette, my fourth child and first daughter, were born. Coincidentally, you were born on my mother's birthday as well - which hopefully scored me some points since my mother was watching your brothers while I was laboring with you.

Of course I was thrilled to have a daughter (although NO, various onlookers, we did not have you to "finally get our girl!"). What has been most wonderful about having this shot of femininity in our home is watching the effect you have on your brothers: you both soften and charm them. They are fiercely protective of you; every time a stranger comes up to comment on your hair, Will stands in between you and the offending party and protects you with his arm.

And the hair. Everywhere I go, I feel like I am a member of a rock star's entourage: everyone turns, and smiles; "oh, look at her HAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRR..." I hope it doesn't go to your head (although, ironically, around age 12 or so you will probably HATE your hair).

You are such a charming child. I feel terrible for your future boyfriends or husband: you can flirt and be sweetly coy with your brothers and father; three seconds later you will happily punch them if they are at all annoying you. You love to primp in the morning with me, but can have a gun fight with your brothers mere minutes later. You are, in short, a lethal combination.

Happy 2nd birthday, dear Colette. You are nothing I expected and everything I hoped for in a daughter.

Now I wonder if we'll still like each other this much in, say, twelve years or so?

Too Much Poop and Really Ugly Shoes

After a couple days of Miralax and purchasing enough fruit to elicit an "It's Fiber HEAVEN here!" from PVT, we have now gone to the OTHER extreme with the poop problem. Suffice it to say that I have laid off the Miralax, and stopped force feeding fruit salad.

Can you believe I am blogging about my family's bowel habits? Neither can I.

ANYHOO, I got an email today from Nordstrom today reminding me that merely THREE MORE days remain until the Anniversary sale. And then, inexplicably, the email touts these shoes:

What? Don't these shoes scream, "I have to run the kids to soccer practice in my minivan, and then I'll make my family tofu turkey burgers for dinner! I'm working on a really cute cross stitch project! I go to bed at 10pm every night after the evening news and brushing and flossing thoroughly! And I haven't had SEX in FIVE YEARS!"

Apparently they are "cause" shoes; Nordstrom will donate a pair of shoes to a child in need for every pair purchased. Well, cripes - that's lovely, but how about I donate to my own causes, and buy something that doesn't scream pre-menopausal, frumpy, asexual MOM? Like these, perhaps:

Gah. Even Nordstrom isn't perfect, my friends.