Well, the cat’s out of the bag

Well, the cat’s out of the bag

First of all, I want somebody to tell me why the cat was in the bag. Or, maybe more importantly, how did you get the cat into the bag? Is there a special cat-bagging technique that my husband and his vet tech friends should know about? Because there seem to be a lot of cats in a lot of bags lately, and nobody really knows how they got there.

BUT ANYWAY!

Obviously, there’s been something wrong with my brain cells lately. I’m wondering¬†about proverbial cats in proverbial bags and don’t know how to ring doorbells, but there’s a good reason for that.

Remember when I said the Mister and I have a few major projects going on that were distracting me from my regular posts?

Well, we do.

We’re having a baby.

baby announcement

ūüėÄ Yes, yes, we are quite proud of ourselves.

I alternate between “Aww, we’re going to have a baby. I just want to hold all the babies, and I can’t wait for my baby to get here” and something that sounds a bit like

“AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH WHAT HAVE WE DONE WHAT WERE WE THINKING WHY DID WE DO THIS WE’LL NEVER HAVE ANY MONEY LIFE AS WE KNOW IT IS OVER AND HOW COULD WE EVER HAVE THOUGHT THIS WOULD EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER BE A GOOD IDEAAAAAAAAAAAA…”

Yeah. There are up and down days.

But mostly good. Six months to go and I can sort of see the walls in what will be the baby’s room behind all the boxes and piles of homeless stuff that has nowhere else to live.¬†It’ll get there.

Someday.

Probably on or around October 20…..

[October??!!! Good grief what am I doing sitting here at work. There is WAAYYYYY too much to be doing to be going to work. We¬†need to read the books, we need to buy the furniture, we need to clean the house, we need to buy a fence, we need to have a yard sale, we need to….]

Pray for us. We’re going to need it.

-The Mommy ūüôā

[Good gracious, somebody’s going to expect me to be their mommy??!! Shouldn’t you have to pass a test for that or something??]

 

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The Mess of Motherhood

I have always had an aversion to mess. My messes, I can ignore. Other people’s messes, I feel my skin start to crawl and my hands start to twitch and my brain starts screaming “clean it! wipe it up! keep it from spreading!” This is something I know to be true about myself and I keep it under control most of the time, but the times it comes out worst are the times I’m interacting with small children. You know… those little creatures that live almost solely to create messes and don’t care where or how bad they are?

Yeah. Those things.

A few weeks ago, my mother-in-law was volunteered at the last minute to teach the one- and two-year-old Wednesday night class at church¬†and I got pulled in by association. The class went well and we didn’t have any tears from anybody, and in the last ten minutes we put all seven of the toddlers into the floor to play with the puzzles, etc. This is when the problem began.

I suddenly found myself following the children around, trying to pick up their pieces as quickly as they could scatter them around the room. I realized that, while my mother-in-law watched the group as a whole and waited for the bell to ring, I was desperately trying to contain the mess without keeping the kids from playing… an impossible balance to achieve.

It dawned on me right there in the floor that this will be my biggest problem as a mother. I feel like I will be able to handle boo-boos, tantrums and nasty poopy diapers, but it’s the food on their faces, the blocks in the floor, the odds and ends scattered throughout the house that will drive me insane. I am going to have to learn to let the kids play and make what messes they will (within reason, of course), and then get it cleaned up after they go to bed.

Because I know, logically, that no matter how quickly I wipe the sauce off their highchairs¬†they will always manage to smear more onto their faces¬†before I can stop them. It’s a never-ending battle that can only be won by waiting for dinner to be over and then putting the child – probably clothes and all – into the tub and cleaning up the kitchen table after bedtime. I know this. But my brain has a very, VERY hard time accepting it.

Because that child – *twitch* – has gravy – *twitch* – in his hair – *twitch twitch twitch*…….