Katherine Unabridged

6.5

Months.  Yep, 6 and a half months.  26 weeks.  Finally.

 

Anyone who has been pregnant knows that pictures become less and less appealling after you hit the half way mark. 

numbers

11: number of diapers I changed today

4 : number of times I cleaned up cat puke from the floor- yuck

1: number of lamp shades Andrew ruined by shoving his foot through it.  What?

0: number of jeans I have left that can be buttoned, thanks to...

10: number of pounds gained this pregnancy

6: ounces of cheddar cheese Violet ate today

0: number of times Violet pooped today

3: times Andrew called home from work because he was bored - lucky

7: tantrums thrown by teething toddler

3: hours the dog spent hiding in the closet compliments of the UPS man

1: number of rats that escaped from their cage

2: hours this pregnant woman spent following a trail of rat poo around the house

3: meals prepared and cleaned up after

15: number of work emails read and answered 'remotely'

2: number of second hand dresses found, loved, purchased

3: number of shoes lost in one day

4: iTunes songs downloaded

10: toes being rubbed by sweet, sweet husband

 

 

 

sisters

I have two sisters.  Two.  Growing up we often shared one room, a room stuffed with toys of various age levels, bunk beds, piles of clothes, and at one point a cardboard box that Jessica insisted on sleeping in.  Next week the oldest of the two younger sisters is moving to Portland to live with us. 

Jacquelyn spends many of her school breaks with Andrew and I in our various locales; hanging out, eating dinner, watching reruns of OLD television shows, and loving on Violet and the cats.  In January, when we decided to move to Portland ,my husband - because he loves me so much and is quite possibly often the best husband ever - suggested my sister move in with us while she finishes college.  My husband volunteered to live with one of his in-laws.  Volunteered.  Amazing.

So, next week she arrives.  I am thrilled.  Thrilled.  Andrew furnished her empty, waiting bedroom.  Violet has already smeared baby grease (mom's know baby grease - it's that weird film permanently sliding off of toddler hands) all on her closet doors.  I am busy preparing our first week of meals, dinners served on my special white plates with my vintage pink goblets.  I can't wait to take her to the market, and lay around all day doing nothing being sisters.  I might even slip in a date night with my husband, now that Violet's aunt is here to dote on her.

I am counting down the days. 

more status quo

Ah, sorry.  It's more of the same here, and seriously, how many times do you really want to read that?  We go the doctor every Friday, except this week where we also go on Thursday.  We are 'stable'.  Stable is great, really.  But stable is also not improved, it does not change statistics, or mean I can take my toddler to the park, or worry that I am wobbling around like a ticking time bomb and if I linger too long in the produce section I might just give birth RIGHT HERE. 

Violet has decided that running is decidedly preferable to walking, so anytime I am up and around I am usually lurching around after her all Frankenstein-like not able to bend anymore compliments of my growing abdomen, arms extended and off-balance.  She thinks it is HILARIOUS to run from me until she face plants on the kitchen floor, or the sidewalk, or into the one stray wooden block left lying around the living room.  It's like toddlers have radars that are tuned fully on HAZARD FINDER! 

I am finally visibly pregnant to spectators, which is nice because it means I can go to the store without looking like I am sporting just a really bad muffin top, and it makes me feel justified in purchasing an extra tub of slow-churned ice cream - you know, for the baby.

Andrew is busy trying to keep everyone pacified, and I am fairly certain he spends a fair amount of time begging God to stop sending him girls. 

The pets?  Well, they are sorely neglected and certainly petting themselves on my furniture as I type this.

the only reason I have to email my husband

Subject: Do not come home without Mexican food!‏

From:	Katherine  (internetfruit@gmail.com)
Sent:	June 19, 2009 7:32:30 PM
To:	AK (fancybankerman@jpmchase.com)

Please come home with fajitas.  SERIOUS.  Call me if you have questions.

 

Love, me

 

 

 

in photos.

Not much to see here.  We are crossing  days off of the calendar, rarely leaving the house except for work and our, now weekly, appointments.  The time is going by ever. so. slowly. 

In the meantime Andrew is dressing our daughter up in ridiculous outfits to take her to the grocery store.

 

Violet is spending her time playing with this bizarrely large onion that we bought at the store, mostly because everyone kept commenting on it's mutant size.  Now instead of eating it, we let our daughter use it as a ball and we discuss how stupid it is that we keep a massive onion for fun.

I don't know if this picture truly encompasses just how massive this onion is.  Here it is towering over a tomato.

 

Still not convinced?  Here it is compared to a toddler cranium...

 

This onion is MASSIVE.  And because modified bed rest means I have entirely too much time on my hands, here we have the onion next to a Weimeraner cranium...

 

Convinced?  Good.

Anyway, Andrew is enjoying his MONTH of Andrew - his birthday, our anniversary, and Father's Day around the corner.  Here is his birthday spread - herb rubbed flank steaks with spicy crab salad, green salad, Kettle Chips, ridiculously expensive olives, and PRESENTS...

 

The cats are busy eating my flowers.... little a$$holes...

 

Me?  I'm miserably pregnant.

In a good way.

 

little lady

Dear Andrew,

Please stop teaching our daughter what a "power-fart" is, unless you plan on accompanying her to dance lessons, and Sunday School, and every other social activity for the next 18 years.

Sincerely,

Kate

a baked goods hoo-dunit.

They are owls.  Well, they are cupcakes that look like owls.  You like?  Anyway, we made, oh, 35 or so for a meeting at Andrew's work.  Baby owls and big mama owls all made out of chocolate and candies and lots and lots and lots of time.

Below is a photo I snapped of the plattered cupcakes before I ran to drop Andrew off for a breakfast meeting.

This, is what I returned to.  Thirty minutes later.  I was confused at first.  Did he take them with him?  Did he use a different container and decide to save three for later?  Where did they go? What happened to the mauled owl's eye? 

I called Andrew at work who seemed equally confused.  He kept reminding me they were on the counter.  Only they weren't. 

Someone ate them.  Someone with four legs and a wiggly tale who was quietly pretending to nap on my couch.  She ate, all 29 CUPCAKES.  Made of chocolate, leaving no traces of crumbs or frosting or candy anywhere....

I called the vet who helped me calculate the amount of actual chocolate in the cupcakes and the amount a dog her size could consume (16oz.).  Lucky dog. 

Probably why she left the last three untouched.  Or she couldn't reach.

 

midpoint

I know I am half way through when my cheeks get a bit fuller, my back starts to ache, I spend half the day yanking my underwear back up, and I wish I could join a nudist colony as none of my clothing will fit. 

 

At least it's summer... well, kind of - sadly this lovely sweater was still necessary - IN MAY.

Working Girl

I got a job. 

That's right - you heard me a J.O.B.  I have been unemployed since we moved to Oregon from Arizona in March.  That's almost three months sans work.

It was wonderful.  It was relaxing.  It was boring.

The best part?  It's part time.  That means I still get to be mom - everyday. 

I'll be working  in a Rescue Mission for women and children that focuses on total life transformation.  Basically, I help women make good decisions.  (Stop laughing Dad).