Joining Jennifer and everyone else for 7 Quick Takes, one day late.
Eh, I couldn’t have done them yesterday, anyway. They would have been a muddle of anxiety-ridden, bipolar mixed-mood, hormonal pregnant lady nonsense, seven variations on the following theme:
GEEEEEEET THIIIIIIIIIIS BAAAAAAABYYYYYY OOOOUUUUUUT OOOOOF MEEEEEEEE…
That’s right. Uterus Girl has thrown in the towel. 34 weeks yesterday and the little baby girl can come whenever she wants, I DON’T CARE.
This picture of Ben from breakfast the other morning cracks me up:
Last night I dreamed a dream. I dreamed a dream of time to have yet gone by, a dream about…
Going into labor.
And I kept waking up and asking, “Am I in labor yet?”
But I wasn’t.
So I turned back over and went back to sleep. Apparently I was in labor in my dreams and gave birth to a boy (surprise!) who could wear six-month-sized clothing at birth (pleasefortheloveofGodNO) and who was eating yogurt in addition to my weird dream-attempts to nurse him. Because newborns eat yogurt, right?
Clearly I’ve forgotten a few things.
House Unseen also made a cameo appearance in Dreamland last night. Apparently my laboring and birthing and yogurt-feeding all happened at Dwija and Tommy’s, and, in the midst of all this, I used Tommy’s table saw to cut… something… I don’t remember what…
In the dream, I knew it was a Porter-Cable table saw, though the machine itself was yellow and black in my dream, which would have really made it a DeWALT saw. Anyway. Whatever. So I was in labor, meanwhile using Tommy’s table saw to cut something. And Dwija comes in and sees me using the table saw:
Me: (showing her what I’m doing)
Dwija: You can have it.
Me: The table saw?
I guess Dweej must have been on some house cleaning/purging/organizing rampage. Fortunately for Tommy, I’m the daughter of a woodworker, and (though dreaming) my response went something like this:
Me: Uuuuummmmmmmmm……… are you sure?
Because — unless you’re gunning for divorce papers — you do NOT give away a woodworker’s table saw!
Then Tommy walks in (my own husband having appeared in the background in some nebulous dreamlike way in the meantime):
Dwija: I gave her the table saw.
Tommy: ….. ….. …..
Me: Are you okay with that?
Tommy: ….. ….. …..
We then determined that the table saw would not fit in back of the Borobia’s van (which we were borrowing ) with the rest of our stuff (which we were hauling). Tommy’s table saw — and the Borobia marriage — was safe.
End of dream.
Leaving my husband to the joys of a temporary bachelor pad (whoop-whoop!), Ben and I traveled to Oregon the other week to visit my family and see my new niece:
Speaking of forgetting everything about taking care of newborns, holding little Miss Rachel during a birthday shopping trip with my sister gave me a chance to play everyone’s favorite game, “Guess What’s Wrong With Baby?”
Aunt Rhonda: You just ate…
Aunt Rhonda: Gas? *Changes her position*
Aunt Rhonda: Diaper?
Check diaper. Diaper messy. Change diaper in changing room while Mommy tries on clothes.
Aunt Rhonda: Still gas? *Remembers Happiest Baby on the Block. Turns her on her tummy, with my arm underneath*
Rachel: …. …. …. *fuss*
Aunt Rhonda: What else is there?
Rachel: *FUSS FUSS FUSS*
Aunt Rhonda: Aha! BINKY!
Give Rachel pacifier. Cradle her in arms and pat her back. In less than two minutes…
Whew. That took about 30 minutes. Exhausting, I tell you.
What other parenting news can I relate? Oh, yes – POTTY TRAINING!
My favorite topic.
Ha, ha, ha…
We’re taking the slow-and-steady approach here. It turns out that Ben knows how to go on the potty and will go on the potty, but on his terms. And his terms involve being in Oregon and living at Grandma and Granddad’s house, because there, he would go, oh, 7 or 8 times a day. At our own house, however?
NOT ON YOUR LIFE, MOM AND DAD.
Everyone says to not “push” it, thereby turning it into a grand Battle of the Wills – a lesson I’ve already learned the hard way. But I’m finding that some gentle-but-firm insistence on my part, at the times when I know he has to go, eventually yields success. It just takes ten minutes of gentle-but-firm insistence that he will, in fact, sit on the potty, and, no, he’s not leaving the bathroom until he does. All done with sweetness and a smile.
What’s frustrating is that I now know that he knows what he’s doing. He just doesn’t want to do it. So silly. So… very much like a three-year-old.
Some more pictures from our trip to Oregon:
With cousin Jack:
Mo’s Annex on Newport’s historic bayfront:
Eating lunch while the charter boats come in with their catch:
Jellyfish at the Oregon Coast Aquarium:
On the kelp-and-driftwood-covered beach. I obviously dressed for the occasion:
Enjoy the rest of your weekend!