Our House Makeover and the DIY network

When I first starting writing in this blog, the tag line was: "A blog about our first house, our new baby, and our adventures along the way." Four years later, this tag line is quickly becoming outdated.  We're expecting the arrival of a new tiny vomit machine baby any day now, and there is a For Sale sign in our front yard.

Before long, we will be moving from our first house, leaving our amazing neighbors, and headed back home to North Carolina.  Part of this move is job related.  Since President Trump has apparently chosen to ignore my top secret advice about renewable energy despite my promises that he could see Kate Middleton's boobs, it looks like all the progress on the "preserving a livable planet" front is going to be in the private sector.  So, Sean got an awesome new job with Solar company in NC, and we are selling our house.

As such, I've been reflecting a lot about the changes we've made to this place.

When we moved in things were a little *ahem*-- unkempt. From the front, our house looked a bit like a crazy old witch lived here. These days, our house is looking like a totally cute babe. If Cher, from the movie Clueless could see our house, she would describe her as a "total Betty." Look at those flipping window boxes!  Breathe in the trendy adorableness of our board-and-batten shutters!

All women love a good makeover montage, and I'm no exception.  Actually, I think men like makeovers too, which is why the DIY network has captured such a brilliant market. It repackages the makeover into something vaguely masculine by disguising it with power tools, then rakes in a fortune by advertising back-splash products to its hypnotized unisex masses.

We didn't invest in any backsplashes while we lived here, but we did watch a lot of DIY network, and I think one thing is for certain: If Mike Holmes were to come to our house when we first bought it, he would have been concerned.  He'd be all like "what kind of a contractor would build such wobbly deck railings for the sweet old witch lady who is living here?"  Personally, I'm more like Cher from Clueless. I saw an opportunity for a makeover montage, and I went for it.

The photographer is coming soon to take photos of the interior of our house.  When those come in, I'll update this post with some "before" and "after" movie magic.  In the meantime, I'll be cleaning frantically for our upcoming open house, and maybe watching the DIY network.

My Cervix is named Hodor

WARNING: The post below contains a Game of Thrones spoiler alert! 

Did I ever tell you guys how my cervix is nicknamed Hodor? 

I know. I basically have no shame. For those of you who have never seen Game of Thrones, let me explain. Hodor is the name of a brave and incredibly sweet giant, who only says "Hodor" and dies valiantly "holding the door" against the evil forces of ice zombies who are trying to murder his companions.

Hodor.

Similarly, when we first got the news that I was pregnant, one of the biggest risks factors was preterm birth.  It was up to my cervix to "hold the door" and prevent this from happening, and for the past 4 months, Sean has been feeding my Hodor liquid courage in the form of weekly progesterone shots that would help my cervix stay closed. 

Recently, the progesterone shots have stopped, and Hodor's herculean strength is finally running out.  This bring us to our current state.  I'm now 38 weeks pregnant and officially miserable.  According to my doctor, that's because I've been walking around 3 centimeters dilated.

*Side note: I'm not exactly a secretive person, and basically everyone in town knows about my dilation. Last Friday, I went to a party where multiple city council members approached me to discuss my recent cervical measurements, proving once again that city council is the last remaining unit of government that is still responsive to the concerns of their constituents.

Anyways, I'm officially done being pregnant.  This baby is strong, and healthy and I'm ready for him to be born already.  That's why today I was in my office looking up exercises to induce labor on pinterest, and I found this picture.

Look at this lady.

My first reaction to this photo is to hate on this woman for wearing white spandex. (What if her water breaks? What if she falls down in that field? Speaking of that field, isn't is probably full of ticks?) But, to be honest, I would never confident enough to wear white spandex even when NOT PREGNANT, so I think in this case I'm probably just unworthy to be in the presence of her Lycra wrapped suavity.

When I look at this lady, I'm consumed by jealousy. She definitely looks a lot more comfortable than I feel right now, and she gets to frolic around in a field, hopefully with the foresight to bug-spray her ankles first. Meanwhile, I'm in my living room, doing lunges and other pinterest exercises in the hopes of inducing labor.  The only consolation for my envy? I guess I still have something she doesn't: Hodor.

Pregnant Ladies Have to Pee, and Other Truths

Lately, I've been walking around enormously pregnant.  Honestly "walking" is a generous term here, it's probably more like waddling.  And the world- faced with the enormity of my equatorial expansion is completely losing its shit.  So- in this blog post, I'm going to lay down some truths about pregnant ladies, and tips for how you can interact with us.
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1. We all have to pee.  This is a universal truth.  If you are talking to a pregnant lady, you can rest assured that she has to pee at this very moment. If we, the pregnant ladies, seem in a hurry to get somewhere, then please sweet Jesus LET US GO. We are on our way to the bathroom, where we are either going to pee, or cry because someone just told us how huge we are, but probably both.

Every time I go to my OB appointments, they have me pee in a cup.  Each time, the receptionist asks me politely "Are you able to provide a urine sample today?" Then we both laugh, because she knows damn well I'm able to provide a urine sample, even though I literally just peed downstairs in the lobby. My OB receptionist is awesome.

2. Remove the word HUGE from your vocabulary.   This is pretty standard stuff really. In our house, Sean has wisely avoided saying the word "huge" for the last 6 months at least.  When we watched the NCAA men's basketball tournament this year, he would say "Hey baby-- come watch this replay-- the Tarheels just came up with a glowing and voluptuous rebound against Gonzaga!"

Here's some solid advice: Before you open your mouth to comment on a pregnant woman's body, ask yourself-- Would it be socially acceptable for me to say this about a non-pregnant person's body?  The answer is probably no.

The truth is, the pregnant ladies of the world do not need your reminders.  We know our bodies are changing. We already receive reminders of this every morning when we are dressing ourselves with clothes the size of industrial table cloths.  Each time we have to pee (which--as we've covered--is quite frequently,) we are also reminded by our belly buttons, which have become fleshy, swirling nebulons of pain.

So, as a public service, I've created a few substitute clauses you can use when interacting with the pregnant ladies in your life!

• Oh my god! You're Huge! (substitute: Oh my God! You're a dead ringer for Kate Hudson!)
• Whoa-- look at that enormous belly! (Substitute: Whoa-- look at that detailed transition plan you've left for your colleagues during your maternity leave!)
• You look like you're about to pop! (Substitute: You look like you're about to propagate another human life using only your uterus and a steady supply of salt-and-vinegar potato chips, like a boss!)

3. We haven't shaved our legs. Not really.  I mean-- we've tried, but we're basically flying blind.  Personally, I haven't seen my thighs in two months. So, I want to apologize to anyone else who may be seeing them, namely Sean.

4. We are all Bad-asses.  Growing up, I sort of considered myself to be well supplied in the bad-assery department.  I was a small town karate star who--in my prime--could flip across my dojo like Simone Biles, and jump-front kick someone twice my size in the teeth.  It wasn't until after Millie was born that I realized the hard truth.  I was not special.  ALL WOMEN, everywhere, even ones who work at perfume counters at department stores,* ** are incredible bad-asses. After experiencing labor, I looked around the pews at the elderly ladies in my church, and was shaken to the core by the pantsuited empresses of Badasserwald that surrounded me, and overflowed out into the Narthex.

*Women who work at perfume counters are actually my biggest fear.
**One time, I tried to buy a summer fragrance in the autumn season, and was rightfully shamed for my ignorance.  I've never recovered.

So remember friends, pregnancy is bonkers. Basically all the moms you know are formidable and deserve your respect.
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I hope this list gave you some convenient insight into the psyche of pregnant ladies-- or at least of this one. As for me, I think it's time that I waddled to the bathroom again.  Maybe while I'm there I'll try and shave my legs, like a bad-ass.