Pregnant and in overalls: I must have been high. Off life, and stuff.

While we were on our mini-vacation at le beach Rehobeth, the husb and I had a sort of "date day."  Whenever we're together and there isn't a child within 2 feet of us (not counting the "inner child") and do "adult" things like finish sentences, it feels like a "date."

My idea and standards of what is romantical drastically changed when I became mom-ified.  You don't necessarily need to go all white linen, expensive perfume wearing, $60 botttle of chardonney, red lipstick and jazz to be considered a "date."

You just need grandma or some other responsible adult to show up and watch the kid.

Here's what the math looks like:
me plus husb minus Milo equals date squared cosign and stuff.

I know, you might need a Texas Instrument to make sense of this one.

We had gotten  full-body, 1 hour massages.  Which, I highly recomend no matter-no time-any place!  Even though I can't lie belly down, there are some WON-DER-FUL techniques to rub out the tension that a prego lady carries in her back and hips (and shoulders and head and neck and legs and feet amen). 

Ooh -lala, health insurance should cover pregnancy massages...

In all honesty, if I wasn't pregnant, I'm sure we would have found the nearest sushi and wine joint and vegged out for 3 hours.  Sigh, maybe next month year...

After lunch, we stopped in at one of my favorite shops, Sunshine Octopus.  They totally fullfill my inner hippy child to no end.  I just love all the skirts and tops and tapestries and bongs jewelery.  One of the sales girls approaches me in all her dreaded hair and patchouli glory and starts chatting me up about these "awesome overalls"  that "you have GOT to try on!"

"You would look SO CUTE!"

Me: "uh, no."

She pulls out the brown corduroy number.

Me: " Oh, nonononono."

But then again, I've had a massage, I'm relaxed, I'm well-fed, there isn't a 3 year old in sight, and the Jimmy Hendrix playing in the store is really groovin' on me, man....I can't help myself...



Pregnant, self-respecting women do not belong in overalls.
This is my truth.

 A date with me= you never know whose pants I may be trying on.... ;)

Charlie and a pair of rose colored glasses

The calf kink is something that prevailed in the 3rd trimester of my last prego-nancy.  It would typically occur at dawn's early light when there was nothing but peace and tranquility streaming through our water and vinegar'd bedroom windows.

Now, at 30 weeks and 1 day, Charlie has decided to revisit the likes of me.

I've been feeling the sore calves, sore thighs, sore vagina (tmi, sorry) for a few weeks now (thank you Relaxin hormone!) but the Charlie Horsey brings it to a whole new acute level of crazypain.

My life partner, a light sleeper to a fault, thinks this girl is in labor as I bolt up in pain, moaning and groaning while I massage and flex my poor calf for several minutes.

The night before I says to my life partner, "I think I'm officially done with being pregnant."

Life Partner replies, "Well, you were feeling that way alot sooner last time.  You're hips don't
hurt do they?"

"No."

The feeling of my hips spreading/expanding started very shortly before my water broke w/ Milo.  My concern of an early labor is ever-present, especially with the L.P.'s work schedule.  Chances of my husband being at the birth are a good 50/50.  Maybe 10/90.  Hell if I know...but I'm an eternal optimist and, as I've aged and experienced, I've grown to trust in the universe that things will happen, as they happen , as they should be, as they were meant to.

So I haven't spent much energy on worrying about a birth plan or the "what to do with Milo plan." I even wrote a poem about it:

What will be will be.
That is the philosophy for me.
I think I'll go hug a tree.

For all I know Milo could be holding my left leg telling me to, "push MAMA, PUSH!"

Part of EQ (emotional intelligence) is knowing what you can control and knowing what you can't. 

As I emerge deeper into the 3rd trimester, closer to the day where I meet my new little boy, feeling the typical aches and pains and fatigue and the oh-em-gee there is going to be a baby up in this house again, I'm not worrying.

Even when a bolt of lightening splits a tree in our front yard and it'll cost lotso money to cut the tree down.
Even when my car needs new brakes and a tire rotation.  And a new windsheild.
I'm not worrying.
Even when my husband will be on "sea duty" for the next 2 years.
I'm not worrying.
Even when my mom plans on moving out west in less than a year and all that she has helped us with will not be so readily available.

I AIN'T WORRYING!

Because I prefer the fairy and gnome happy happy hippy life...



I gotta love that man...





Just a minute of your time

Yes I've been known to delude myself
So let me put those rose
Colored glasses to the test

Now is this real enough for you
'cause blondes here don't jump out of cakes
If that never impressed you much

Come board this lunatic express

~tori amos
"almost rosey"



Monday, 2:23pm, tactics to a better mood





Sometimes he wakes up from his nap on the wrong side of the big boy bed.
He gets this from me.
Except I have a big girl bed.



Strategy One:  Fear:  Scare him into a good mood.
(doesn't work)



Strategy 2: Smudging:  Burn sage while chanting "Hey ya, Hey ya, Hey..."
(closer to fine...)





3rd and final strategy: road trip:  Get Thee to a BEACH!





Ah...happy, playful toddler, now that's the stuff...



"Everybody must get stoned." thanks, Bob

Milo has a new thing.  A new trick, if you will.  He sticks this little stick thing into the passenger seat in front of him, using it as a microphone, and he sings.  Loudly.

Making me rethink the playing of "Rainy Day Women #12 and 35"


Well, they’ll stone ya when you’re trying to be so good

They’ll stone ya just a-like they said they would
They’ll stone ya when you’re tryin’ to go home
Then they’ll stone ya when you’re there all alone
But I would not feel so all alone
Everybody must get stoned

~Bob Dylan