in the majority

Back in the day, long, long ago (meaning before I had children), I had an abdominal surgery for some health problems and it left a scar like a c-section would. As of this pregnancy . . . my third pregnancy . . . I am beginning to get "real" stretch marks for the first time in my life, on the far right side of my scar. I have never had the stretch marks that so many women talk of.

Sometime after Miss C was born, I did discover some very tiny, faint ones--also near the scar--but they could hardly be seen (thin and squiggly and barely there) and I knew they did not "qualify" in many women's eyes. I've never been bothered by my lack of stretch marks, that's for sure! But this new phenomenon on my lower belly is definitely not thin or squiggly...it's wide and silver and looks like it should have hurt to create itself. Oi! I think I'll blame it on the fact that my favorite sugar scrub is no longer for sale at Bath & Body Works. Yeah--it's all their fault! I used it lovingly on my belly the last two pregnancies and had to find a substitute this time around. No fair. Maybe I should file a formal complaint. hahaha!

Now, to balance the lack of stretch marks on my belly for so long, I will say that there were definite "sunshine" stretch marks on certain body parts used after a baby is born--I make lots and lots and LOTS of milk (twins? triplets? bring 'em on, I can feed them easy!) and go from an A to a DD once my milk comes in . . . yes, you read that right. And they carry a definite set of stretch marks. Fortunately, once I'm through nursing, the drastic decrease in size disguises the marks. As they grow during the next pregnancy, I see them again and am amazed that I'd forgotten just how stretched they get!

All that said, I have just over six weeks left. Six long, exhausting weeks. For the first time, I have joined the ranks of women who are "done" and "ready" for the baby to come. I have never felt this way. In the past, I've relished each day of my pregnancy. This time, I'm so tired, so emotional, so need-to-be-busy with housework and kids that all I want is my sweet boy in my arms to snuggle, hold, nurse, and love.

Yes, I'm in the majority now. I am impatient for my child to be born and I have real-woman stretch marks.

happy thanksgiving

Thanksgiving has always, always been my favorite holiday.

I love taking the time to reflect on what I am thankful for, and to spend it with the family I love so dearly. I love that there is no distraction of "what did I get" as at Christmas, yet I can just as easily be thankful for my Lord and Savior. I love the simplicity of sitting and enjoying my family, playing games, visiting, and eating. And I love the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade (though I'm not so fond of the unfamily-friendly commercials that pop up). And there are also the wonderful, warm memories of past Thanksgivings.

This year especially, I am thankful for my new little boy, Baby J, almost ready to join us on the "outside". I am thankful for my husband who is so kind and loving and takes such good care of me and our children. I'm thankful that my parents are doing particularly well this year, both in health and in practical matters.

Even on the hardest days of the year in our home--those days when I feel like wringing soemone's neck!--I am thankful that I can look at my sweet (or not as the case may be) children and feel love ready to overflow and thankfulness for each little person. The Lord put these little people in our lives intentionally...and made them exactly who they are, intentionally.

Something practical I'm feeling thankful for is the fact that our Thanksgiving meal with be smaller this year, simpler. Only my parents and brother will join us this time. I am too exhausted to have a crowd or make a large meal. We're having a prepurchased Roasted Turkey Breast (from Honey Baked Ham, thank you very much!), and my mom will be here in a while to help make some sides to go with it. My biggest effort was making a large batch of our most favorite pumpkin muffins (in lieu of a pie this year b/c a dairy free pumpkin pie is some serious hard work!). I did that early this morning and plan to take it easy from here on out (as in eating the muffins and drinking fully caffeinated coffee!).


At school, Little B had a large sheet to fill out:
I Am Thankful
for God/Jeasas/holy Spirit

His heart is definitely in the right place (and he refuses to add to this large, empty page to add anything about family....hhhmmm).


To each one of you, I pray you have a wonderful, thankful Thanksgiving this year!

(Now, back to my regularly scheduled parade...)

winning streak

I'm not normally one of those people who wins everything--or much at all, really. But, twice now in one week's time I've won something!

First, last week at the PTO (Parent Teacher Organization) meeting, I won the door prize for a school shirt--something I won't be able to wear for several months yet, but it's a great girly design and will be fun come spring!

Then, today dcrmom of Musings of a Housewife told me I'd won some delicious chocolate from her review blog. And since I have craved--and I do mean, CRAVED--chocolate this pregnancy from early on, I am beside myself!

Now, I'm waiting to see if there's a third win waiting out there for me...

what IS that smell?

Last night, I needed to go into the garage to go to my van to get some library books I had waiting to be returned (the extra-long winded version is that my husband planned to go return them and get one I had on held for me, but it ultimately got too late). Anyhow, opening the garage door gave me some serious wiff of a foul odor. Opening the van door, whose window was partway down, thank goodness, gave me the same foul odor. Really, "raunchy" is a kind term. I am telling you it stunk BAD.

I could not detect the source, nor did I have the stomach to try to find it. I asked my husband to look into it. He glanced around the garage and suggested the bags of cement he bought over the weekend as perhaps having an odor, but apparently it didn't bother him nearly as bad as it did me.

This morning, the stink was stronger. I left one garage door open (we have 2 separate doors) and hoped it would help. I was beginning to believe something had crawled in there and died. The van smelled worse, too. Ugh. The laundry room was beginning to catch the scent and let me tell you I was NOT having my house smell like this rot.

I had the luxury of going back to bed this morning for a while since Miss C was still soundly asleep. This was especially nice since I'd been up for nearly 2 hours in the night for absolutely no reason. When we got up, I was contemplating the fact that I would need to have some vague idea of what to do for dinner because that meal always sneaks up on me and I simply loathe it right now (can we say return of 1st trimester food aversions?). I recalled having purchased a fryer chicken on Sunday and went to look for it, hoping that perhaps I could roast it which my family enjoys.

No chicken in the fridge. I looked again, but I had just emptied the "extras" out since trash ran this morning and I knew it was not there. I pondered this. For all of one minute. Did I change my mind and not buy it? No. . .

I charged to the garage, opened the back of the van and lo and behold the smell I encountered nearly took my breath away. Nasty. I had to hold my breath! The headless little chicken was tucked next to the stroller and almost covered by a blanket I keep back there. Somehow, I did not see it the other day when I put my groceries away.

I can tell you our cooler weather kept it from becoming a problem sooner, but oh my goodness. I am so glad I was not in a rush to get out the door when I found it. I left the back of the van open for a few hours and febreezed the inside before I left later. And the chicken? Three or four plastic bags later it is in my freezer...the trash had already run a few hours before.

GRROOOOSSSS!!!

the cow in our bathroom

We have one of those tubs that has jets. The tub is directly between the shower and the small "water closet" with the toilet. Therefore the vent for the motor to the jets is located beneath the toilet paper roll. This has never been particularly significant to me before now.

What I have failed to blog on recently is my daughter's self-potty training this past month. I have to remind her sometimes, and she still has accidents sometimes, but for the most part she's got it down and I commend her for it. I've been duly impressed and had held off for a while. (I actually chased her around with a diaper for a while as she insisted on trying to go potty before I was ready to let her since we had that Disney trip planned! hahaha!) I'm a firm believer in not making it a lot of work for myself. Either they get it or they don't. She gets it. Thank goodness!

Being pregnant, I am very susceptible to the power of suggestion, particularly if a bathroom is involved (or chocolate, but maybe that's not pregnancy-related). If Miss C must use the potty (even if it's the fourth trip in an hour), the odds are pretty high that mommy will likely need to go immediately after her. And while I have my turn I help pull up her jeans and such. Being a typically small room, she stands barely inside the doorway and has become a huge fan of the aforementioned vent.

Once she is redressed, she sits at the vent, peering into the small metal slats, telling me there is a cow inside. We both have to moo. I tried many other animals much to her delight, but in the end she is adamant that there is indeed a cow.

And here I thought cows lived on farms. But apparently, we have one living in our bathroom.

11 weeks left

How many months pregnant am I? I hate that question. I like weeks. It's easy to count either direction. At the moment, I am 29 weeks pregnant (and one day, to be technical about it) and most definitely feeling that I've reached the third trimester. Unlike my first pregnancy during which I had a picture taken every single week to compare the belly growth, I've been far more random and distinctly sparse about it this time around. Last night, I decided to get a specific belly shot to share with you.

I give you the belly that looks more like a bowling ball under my shirt:

memories

All the talk about my husband’s grandparents has given me pause to remember my own. I knew three of them, as my mom’s father died when she was still a teenager. Her mom lived alone, cross-country from us, and our visits were never quite often enough. She always returned my letters, and sent news of various family members. I loved that lady dearly though and after her death a few years ago many of my aunts and uncles (my mom was 10th of 11 kids with an endless supply of long-distance relatives that issued forth from them) spoke of how often she recalled a certain long visit I made with her. I spent a couple weeks basking in her quiet home after a long illness. We could chat or just be still. It didn’t matter. She never drove, and we walked or caught the bus any place we needed to go—the mall, the beach, the grocery store, the travel agency to confirm my flight home. I believe those weeks gave us something very special and while we did not have the luxury of frequent visits, we shared the closeness of hearts.

My father’s parents were as completely different from my mother’s as could be imagined. They lived on a farm in Kentucky, and were rife with silliness and loudness, more boisterous than calm, a true farmer’s life abounding in their home. Large meals, constant chatter, long gravel driveway and white farmhouse with a red roof. My aunt and cousin both lived on the property, and solitude was never to be found. My Papaw died when I was a freshman in High School, Mamaw the first year I was married. One of my favorite memories of going to visit was playing “Ten Fingers” for the last few miles of the trip. At some point, my dad would tell us to “put up ten fingers”, and eagerly, our palms would stretch open, taut with excitement. As we passed various land marks down the country road to their farm, he would say, “When we cross a bridge, take one down”, “When we go around a REALLY sharp turn, take one down”, “When you see a pond on the left, take one down”, and so on. Our fingers readily folded down, anxious for the next landmark. The anticipation would really build when we took one down for a gravel driveway, another pond, and finally, the engine turning off. By then, doors would be bursting open from both the car and the house, voices raised in the thrill of arrival and arms tangled in hugs.

When my Mamaw died, my parents were already with her, having stayed by her side in the last days. My husband, brother and I drove up for the funeral. As we neared the country road, I felt a sharp sense of loss that came with knowing the welcome would be far different than any before. And our finger game felt obviously absent from the end of our drive (my fingers seemed to be waiting for directions of their own accord). When I spoke of this, my younger brother, still in High School, was driving the final stretch. And he told me to put up ten fingers. . .