Someday I would like to live in a warm, sunny climate. I’m not saying I would become sparkly-glowy in my regard for my fellow human beings or that I would never have a gloomy day, but I am 100% sure our house would be cleaner.
This morning when I scooped Iris out of her crib and deposited her in bed with us, I unhooked the curtain and saw our first blue sky in weeks.
We did the laundry, swept the floors, took out the trash, folded and put the clothes away, made crock pot mac’n’cheese from scratch, and scrubbed down all the big, ghetto mirrors in the master bedroom.
Iris helped, which was fitting since—apart from the dust—the most notable marks were about 24 inches off the ground and included a collection of very small handprints and a few kiss rings and drool drips.
A good spring cleaning day.
There is nothing quite like it—the cold squish of gel and then the roll of the probe, a deeply muffled thud or two of your own heart echoing, and then suddenly the earnest, unconscious jackrabbit sound of a heartbeat that isn’t your own but is still somewhere inside you.
It’s like a double shot of espresso. I can’t stop smiling.
Who is this little person? I’m so curious to see. I’ve felt the first kicks already, soft as the flick of a butterfly wing and just as surprising. The due date is in September, so we’re just coming out the first trimester misery—a season of sleepiness and up-chucking and what-the-heck-were-we-thinking. It passes.
Iris is fascinated by my belly, but mostly just because she loves the feel of skin, and an ever-increasing expanse of it is pretty thrilling stuff. She likes to pull my shirt up and lay her head against my belly, fall asleep at nap time with her hand pressed warm against it.
I hope they like each other.
18 months apart is sort of a daunting concept, I admit. We are not always sure we can imagine life with two pre-verbal goombas in diapers, and in my weeks of 24/7 nausea I did not always enjoy the sorts of comments one gets with closely spaced pairs. (“You do know where babies come from?” my step-MIL asked with her usual sensitivity, and our pediatrician—who has two different sets of 18 month-apart kids—told me that the first 15 years were hard, but after that it’s been great).
Yes, but if we waited we would not have this baby.
And I already can’t imagine life without this one.
Am back-posting, though. Today is Monday, and I have finally (FINALLY!!) gotten Iris to take her nap in the crib. The last week or two has been an exclusively nap-on-Mommy-while-watching-Barney adventure, so you understand how phenomenally lovely it is to hear the sound of her rainy day noise machine purring upstairs while sorting through pictures and eating peanuts on the couch.
Carl just brewed us each a cup of green tea and settled in to play video games.
And I have a half-read essay by Jonathan Franzen on Robinson Crusoe and the secluded island of Masafuera sitting beside me.
More of everything, please.
Carl spent his spare time tonight rearranging the kitchen to get the microwave away from the sink. I was initially opposed, although mostly because I am lazy and it seemed like a lot of work. Also I was skeptical about the fruit basket placement, but what do I know?
Carl is the master of BS. He said it would look awesome. He said I would like it. He said it would “liven up our marriage.”
And you know what, it DOES look awesome, and I do like it.
No word yet on the marriage, though.
I swear I have thoughts. I’m reading the Best American Essays collection for 2012 (another good year!), enjoying a few healthy debates on my favorite message boards, digging out of my winter torpor enough to have lunch with friends, and pondering the comparative merits of blueberry bushes vs. lilacs. I do have thoughts.
I think about Steubenville and rape culture. I think about when to compromise and when to enforce boundaries. I think about education (mine and Iris’s). I think about doctor’s visits and weird birth marks/rashes that won’t go away. I rant to Carl about sexism and dingbats and terrifying mother-in-law stories that are floating through my old birthboard these days.
I have thoughts.
I just don’t have time. Such is life.