I'm checking things off my list. We - (By "we" I mean the three kids and I and our regular babysitter. Matt hates photo sessions and firmly feels that my obsession with the painfully expensive but mind-blowingly fabulous photographer in our area qualifies me for mental health care.) - "we" had a maternity photo session on Thursday morning. Except that "we" ended up being me because the smaller "we's" were completely nonhelpful and noncute and nonanything you would want for taking pictures, nonstill, noncooperative, nonsmiling.
Ess and Gee were fairly good, they sat by me. It's just that they've hit, at not quite four, who knew it happened so young, that awkward, self-conscious phase that ruins every picture until your maternity pictures at 36. They either smile with horrendous fake grimaces or stare stonily at the camera. My cuddly, mamma's little angel, Cue, sprouted a forked tongue and morphed into demon baby with a repelling magnet installed. He wouldn't come anywhere near me. He screamed "NO MOMMA" when I picked him up. I wanted a shot with my belly and Cue cuddling on my shoulder the way he does every thirty seconds throughout the day. A porcupine being eaten by stinging scorpions would have been more cuddly.
I tried not to sweat because I paid to have my hair done for this photo shoot and damn it all to hell and back but I was going to look good. It's all about me anyway. If I look terrible in the pictures I'll hate them all and if I like the way I look, I'll pretend I think their horrendous grimaces and the flash of Cue's disappearing leg in one corner are adorable.
Anyway, the important thing is belly pictures - check.
We met with our doula and our birth plan is ready - check.
I've asked a friend (and hopefully my sister if timing works) to be with me for the birth because I decided, when Matt waved weakly at me from behind his oxygen mask just after Cue's birth, that while he is the love of my life and he should be there for the birth of his final child, he is somewhat useless and I want more woman in the room to pet me and tell me I'm not sweaty or exuding noxious substances from an embarrassing location. (They'll lie.) - check, check.
The baby may now exit my body.
Despite the fact that we haven't bought a single thing, not even an adorable, gender neutral homecoming outfit, I feel ready. It's funny, you don't expect your fourth baby to be "celebrated" the way a first baby is celebrated. It's a little sad, but true. It's kind of par for the course, you have all the stuff, it's not all new, you've read the books and been the cute (but actually somewhat overwhelmed, someone help!) new mom, everyone's busy, etc.
I thought I didn't need it and I don't. But, the truth is, a little celebration is always welcome. A lovely joint shower for the four (!) pregnant moms in Cue's class and the willingness of everyone reading along here to play guessing games with me and share my excitement, has made this pregnancy feel new and special. Oh, yeah, and real. Like a real baby is coming. The kind that cries and nurses and keeps me up all night. Deep breath.
It's down to sleeping arrangements and my nesting wheels are spinning madly but there's absolutely no forward progress.
If you've read very much around here, or you know me in real life, you're probably aware that I'm a bit type A. (I heard that loud snort, okay, a lot type A.)
Our house is neat. Spare. There's not much clutter. Clutter drives me insane. With the exception of the office, which makes me nauseous and which I plan to purge with merciless efficiency in the next few weeks, nothing sits around, the closets are organized, things have places or they get thrown away. I am notorious for throwing things away. Toys. Important papers. Dirty clothes. Anything that annoys me by not having someplace to go.
I'm not bragging here - I didn't say I kept the house clean, I hate to clean. No amount of dirt on the floors or mold in a shower will motivate me. Nothing motivates me to clean but house guests. It is neat. Compulsively neat. Organized.
The kids' bedrooms are simple, very simple. Like books and beds simple. I love them. I love the paint, the curtains, the pictures on the walls, the lack of crap. Love them.
The point here? I have two insane nesting urges. The office. It must be stopped. The sleeping arrangements must be changed. Ess and Gee currently share one room and Cue sleeps in the nursery. The plan is to move Cue in with the older two and keep my beloved nursery for the baby.
I want the nursery exactly as it is. Which means, Cue needs the crib that his brother is sleeping in as a toddler bed. Which means, Gee needs a new bed. We have perfect honey-stained beds that I planned to put in this room someday and Matt has one of them all ready to move into the house.
[Insert wailing and gnashing of teeth here.] It doesn't fit. It doesn't fit with the other two cribs. Matt wants to cram it into the nursery so that my mom can sleep on it when she's here. It doesn't fit there either. It will look crowded and claustrophobic and I will hate it and it keeps me up at night worrying about it. (Also, [whispering], I hate change, I love those rooms, it all looks so nice, I can't do it, they can't grow, they can't sleep in real beds, lalalalalalalalalala.)
I know. C-R-A-Z-Y. I am already crazy about this stuff. Thirty-six weeks pregnant on top of my usual crazy is a rare brand of crazy.
Just in case you doubt the depths of my controlling, anal retentive neurosis, this picture shows my children eating the second popsicles they have ever eaten in their lives. Their first popsicles were consumed last week in the same location. I consider this the only acceptable place to hand them horrendous sticks of drippy stickiness. They consider this normal adult behavior.
I am their model for normal adult behavior. Shudder. Grimace for the camera, darlings.
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