We live in a two-bedroom townhouse. Adam and I bought this place after we had been dating for a couple years. There were a few days between our settlement and when we could get our friends to help us move our stuff in. So that first night, we slept on blankets on the floor, ate pizza, and watched a movie on a little portable DVD player. It’s the first place we lived together, excluding the time I spent as a squatter in his brother’s basement while we were looking for this house.
We have had holidays and birthdays in this house. My sister lived with us until August was born. We brought two babies home to this house. We filled it with animals who never stop shedding. Our cats actually moved in when we did, along with three of their siblings, who were all found in a barn behind Adam’s parents’ house the day we settled on ours. We made updates and adjustments to this house that we love and that have made it our home. We are in close proximity to two Targets in this house. And in the coming months, we are packing this house up and giving the keys to someone else and moving into our forever-home.
Up to my eyeballs in Christmas at this moment, and I’ve got some super well-timed upper respiratory shit going on, so I thought I would check in while I wait for my Christmas cookies to cool enough to sprinkle them with a big, fat Xanax. This is the first Christmas August really knows what is going on, so I’m getting crazy excited and also poor.
We have spent small chunks of the past few years trying to pare down the stuff that we own. There was a huge purge a few summers ago that has been followed by small ones. I usually decide to clean an area and then decide I hate everything I ever decorated it with, and call Purple Heart to come pick up my shitty choices. And quarterly, I go through toys and kid stuff to bring whatever never got much use or what was straight up annoying as crap to a big consignment sale. We are trying to get as close to minimalism as we can without becoming insufferable dorks who can’t stop talking about minimalism.
When I talk to newly-pregnant friends about what it’s like to have kids, I don’t try to sugarcoat shit because you don’t send someone into a war-zone by telling them “Just walk through this door to your spa appointment and cookie buffet, ma’am.” I want my friends to be prepared. I also want them to feel bad for me and pick up the lunch tab. I stay home and Panera does not cost for free.
Newborns are the fucking pits a sizable percent of the time. Yes, you’re going to be stoked on your new and healthy baby and the miracle of life and yada yada. But there is nothing that really prepares you for the kind of sleep deprivation that comes with that. Or the ’round the clock feeding and changing and burping and What noise did he just make do I need to call the pediatrician WHAT IS THE NUMBER FOR 911?? It’s just a whole thing. So thingy.
Zen as hell right now. My kid could bring me a beehive and scotch tape it to my upper lip and I wouldn’t give a fart. Spending a weekend alone with Sophia, Dorothy, Blanche and Rose was exactly what I needed. Also, finding out that on any given moment, at least four episodes of Golden Girls is on the air, makes me want to get cable again.
When Adam left for Colorado a couple months ago, the main thing that got me through three and a half weeks alone with a hellion and a fresh-out-the-uterus baby was knowing I was going to spend an entire weekend in a hotel by myself when he got back. I haven’t been alone for more than a few hours in over three years. That’s the case for pretty much all parents when they start parenting, but I’m weak. So I booked a hotel, not far away, for the sole purpose of spending 48 hours watching TV and eating pizza and taking baths and stuffing my face with waffles and sleeping. I was ready to swim in a pool and go get a pedicure and pack my running shoes so I could pretend I was going to use the fitness center and smuggle a bunch of breakfast pastries back to my room for second breakfast and elevensies.
Since Adam has been back from Colorado, my house has been dirty as balls. Filthy. Don’t even wanna look at it. It embarrasses me without anyone even seeing that shit. I mean, I was up to my eyeballs in newborn and preschooler business while he was gone and then he came home and I was crazy busy and also tired as hell. Then August, Halligan and I all got sick and the whole house got covered in a shiny layer of snot. I don’t really blame myself because it was straight bullshit over here.
Then I decided to drink an entire bottle of $7 champagne by myself tonight and clean and it might be the booze talking, but this house is beautiful and this is the best thing I have ever done. There’s a pumpkin spice candle in my trunk waiting to be the icing on my house cake. It’s raining so I made sure I bought all non perishables at Target so I could leave them in my trunk overnight until a dryer time. My trunk probably smells delicious right now. If you are reading this and a thief STAY OUT MY DAMN TRUNK.
We are three years into cloth diapering. August is potty trained during the day, but he still wears a diaper overnight. We started when he was a baby, and bought a stash of Bum Genius 4.0 diapers. I love them, because they look and work like regular diapers, so there wasn’t much of a learning curve. And they have a million snaps that allow them to grow with your child, so you don’t need several stashes of various sizes.
One of the only complaints I ever had about cloth diapering was the poop. When your kid is older and eating solid food, they mostly have solid poop and you can usually just dump it into the toilet. But babies are gross and have gross wet cement poop that is a total pain to get off of cloth diapers.