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Urgh. I’m tired. Nobody wants to hear me complain about how I’m tired and I’m too tired to complain about it, so that’s why I haven’t written in years. When Liam naps, I nap. But today, I’m not tired right this second. But I probably will be by the end of this.
So I can’t even remember where I left off. Something about being pregnant. That was ages ago. Although I’m still pregnant. It’s another boy, so that’s cool. I’m five months plus and we’re just starting to get Liam involved. Asking him if he wants to be a big brother and how he has a little brother in mommy’s tummy, but he won’t come out for a long time. I think he only half gets it. We should probably get a book or something. But if you ask me, there’s over three months before the baby comes, and that’s an ETERNITY to a 2-year-old, so why make him wait forever? A few months to get it through his head is sufficient.
Because Baby 2 is on the way, we’ve decided to fix up the larger front bedroom for Liam and reuse Liam’s current room as the nursery again. It’s much smaller and it’s closer to our room. But we want this room for Liam to be done well in advance of the baby’s arrival, so Liam doesnt equate new baby with getting kicked out of his room into this new strange room. We want him to have time to get used to the new digs. However, the front bedroom has been literally trashed. When we moved in, we ripped up the carpet and baseboards and never touched it again. It even still has the previous owners’ ugly lace sheers on the window. The walls look like hell and there’s no closet doors. We’ve been using it as an office/dumping ground. So last night we moved three years of homeless crap and computers down to the basement and then vacuumed up three years of dust bunnies. Huge, rabid, ravenous dust bunnies.
We let Liam stay up while we moved things out, rather than try to move silently while he tried to sleep. After we got everything downstairs, I put Liam to bed and went back down to help Adam clean up and organize. Adam looked at me and observed, “You’ve got cheese on your boob.” I look down and there’s this dried piece of cheddar from God only knows where stuck on my chest. Don’t even ask, because I don’t know. To which I could only reply, “Story of my life.” Which, as it turns out, would be a pretty good title. “There’s Cheese On Your Boob: Sandy’s Life Story.” Look for it at your local bookstore.
