Waiting Game

We are anxiously anticipating the arrival of munchkin-the-sequel in a few weeks. She is supposed to make her debut in 3 weeks, but the munchkin was a whole two weeks late when he finally decided to show up, so I am not holding my breath that 2.0 will be here anytime soon.

Apparently the fact that the munchkin arrived 2 weeks after his due date is a bit of a medical anomaly. At one of my first visits to the doctor during this pregnancy the nurse who was updating my chart said, “Did you really go 42 weeks with your first baby? That can’t be right.”

Nope, it was right.

At this same visit the doctor asked, “Wow, you went 42 weeks with your first. Do you plan to do that again?”

At a later visit a nurse commented, “Hmm, 42 weeks…we don’t see that very often. Did you do that on purpose?”

More recently a different nurse was looking at my chart and said, “It says here that your first pregnancy you went 42 weeks. Can you tell me why you chose to do that?”

They give me way too much credit: I was not aware that I had that much control on when the munchkin showed up!

For now, we are patiently waiting for baby to show up. The hubs talked about waiting in his sleep last week, but I don’t think he was waiting for our baby girl. I was just starting to fall asleep when the hubs sat up and crossed his arms.

Me: Are you ok?

Hubs: Yep, just waiting for Thomas.

Me: Oh, ok. Do you think he’ll be long?

Hubs: Don’t worry about it honey.

Me: Alright. I’m going back to sleep then.

Then I rolled back over and went back to sleep. I’m not sure how long the hubs sat up, but I hope that whoever he thought was coming didn’t keep him waiting for too long!

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Interpreter Wanted

The munchkin knows the words for his colors, but does not always use them for the correct color. For example, this morning the munchkin cried and cried and cried that he wanted a green cup…all while I stood there offering him a green cup. Eventually I had him show me what he was referring to and he pointed to his orange cup in the cabinet. Once I handed it to him he cradled it, and glaring up at me said, “My green cup.”

Oy. Sometimes I wish I had an interpreter to tell me what the munchkin is trying to communicate. The other night I could have used an interpreter for what the hubs was talking about in his sleep. I hadn’t fallen asleep yet when the hubs started talking.

Hubs: Hey, they really need more than that. I mean, they need a lot more for sure.

Me: Oh, really? What do they need?

Hubs: Tubes. They need a lot more tubes.

Me: Yeah? How many more do you think?

Hubs: Probably 3 or 4, at least. There just aren’t enough.

Me: I see. And that will be enough?

Hubs: You, you’re making fun of me. I can tell.

Me: Oh, ok. I just don’t know what you’re talking about.

Hubs: Yeah, me neither.

And then he went back to sleeping quietly. I guess maybe everyone in this house could use an interpreter sometimes!

Seat Lock

When I married the hubs, there was the normal blending of family traditions and idiosyncrasies. One thing his family does that I was not familiar with is “seat lock.” Seat lock is when a person leaves a place where they are sitting, if they yell, “seat lock,” then they get to sit there when they come back. If, say, they don’t know about seat lock because they’ve only been on three dates with a member of the family, they lose their comfortable spot on the couch and have to sit on the floor. Thankfully, it didn’t take me too long to figure out the rules, so I can now defend my comfy chair at family events.

Our little dog is the queen of “seat lock.” Mainly because she only has a few places she likes to sit, and she has made those places so covered with dog hair that no one would want to sit there unless armed with a jumbo lint roller.

The dog lounging in her favorite spot on the couch.

The dog lounging in her favorite spot on the couch.

I think it’s normal to be attached to a particular place, and claim it as your own. This last week I even talked to the hubs about this in my sleep. That’s right, I am the one sleep talking this time.

Apparently, the hubs woke up in the middle of the night to me yelling. He said that our conversation went like this:

Me: It’s my spot…. MY SPOTTTTT!!!!

Hubs: You’re ok, honey, just go back to sleep.

Me: You’re not listening to me. This is my spot!

Hubs: Yes, honey, you’re sleep talking. 

Me: It’s my spot, my spot, my spot!!!

I asked him what he did after all of this commotion, and he said, “I rolled over and went back to sleep as you continued to repeat ‘my spot,’ over and over…. There was no winning.”

Well, ok then. I guess he knew that I would definitely call “seat lock” on this spot that I apparently cared about so much!

Fear and Trembling

I hate scary movies. Really, honestly hate them. And haunted houses. Or haunted hay-rides, or really anything with “haunted” in the name. I do not like to be scared, even if I know it is all make-believe. Fear is just…scary!

It is not always even outside scary forces that make my heart race and palms sweaty. Sometimes it is my own thoughts that end up scaring me. For example, at church on Sundays we drop the munchkin off at his class, and are given a number that flashes on the screen in the service if he needs us. Whenever a number comes up in the service, I always think they mistyped it, and really it is us they are trying to contact. For example, our number is 6734 and sometimes 6834, or 7734, or 6733 come up on the screen. And then I work myself into a scared fit, convinced that the munchkin is in trouble, and I am not coming to him because the number is wrong.

Sometimes it is not even close to our number, yet my brain makes me freak out with fear that I am somehow missing out on my responsibility. The number could be 5487 and my fear convinces me that the childcare worker is dyslexic and has poor depth perception, and really meant to type 6734 and summon us.

I know I have a problem. I’m working on it.

The most fearless member of the family. Here she is, in a moment of extreme bravery, guarding the home for the ones she loves.

The most fearless member of the family. Here she is, in a moment of extreme bravery, guarding the home for the ones she loves.

Sometimes the hubs’ sleep talking scares me. I really only get truly frightened when he sits up or tries to get out of bed in his sleep. I worry that in his asleep state he will hurt himself or me.

This happened most recently a few weeks ago: I woke up to the hubs sitting up in bed, completely still. I asked if he was alright, scared he would try to get out of bed. He did not say anything, sat there for another minute, then rolled over as if nothing happened. It was a scary moment for the awake member of the family.

Just last week, though, the hubs was the one who was scared in his sleep. I woke up to him throwing his arms around wildly.

Me: What is it?

Hubs: There’s a bug!

Me, sort of concerned maybe there really was a bug: Really?!

Hubs, with more thrashing around: It’s a bug!

Me, realizing he was asleep: Yeah, well just get rid of it.

Hubs: Hate it. Hate that.

Me: Ok, me too.

Hubs: Bug. Gross.

He was quiet after that. I hope his experience with the bug in his sleep was not too frightening, because I know how awful it is to be scared!

Strike Four, You’re Out!

I have many fine qualities, but natural athletic ability is not chief among them. Actually, it is not really among them at all. When God was gifting me, athletic ability was left standing on the wall like a loser while various other things were chosen… much like I was left standing on the wall when my peers chose teams for softball in gym class. I am just not skilled. I was so bad that in gym class the teacher used to feel bad and “miscount” strikes when we played softball and give me four chances to swing. I was so bad that the kids didn’t even bother to move in, because the odds of me connecting ball and bat were practically zero. I was so bad that the pitcher (who I had a crush on) used to scoot way up and just sort of loft the ball at me, encouraging me to hit it. And I really haven’t gotten much better in the decade and a half since then.

My lack of athletic ability (and obvious emotional scars from softball failures) does not mean that I do not like to play with balls with the dog and the munchkin.

photo(9)

The munchkin loves balls so much that I made his play pen into a ball-pit. It’s awesome. I’m not sure who loves it more, him or me.

The dog prefers tennis balls. She keeps a secret stash of them behind the television cabinet.

The dog prefers tennis balls. She keeps a secret stash of them behind the television cabinet.

Unlike me, the hubs is good at sports. Right now he is on a golf kick, and he’s out swinging the club constantly. I think that getting out for a few holes must have been on his mind last night. I was sleeping soundly when I jumped awake because the hubs sat up and smacked my shoulder.

Me: What?!? What’s wrong?!?

Hubs: What on earth!?! Don’t you know about the foursome?

Me: Umm, no…

Hubs: Yeah, well I’m not playing without it, and you’re just… it’s just…

Me: What are you talking about?

Hubs: Oh, you don’t even know, do you! We need a foursome for nine holes.

Me: That’s fine, Buddy. Let’s not worry about it.

Hubs: You know what you are? An embarrassment. Yep, this is just horrible.

Surprisingly, I was not offended, because, when it comes to sports, this is nothing I didn’t already know…that, and I’m doing better at not getting upset when the hubs sleep talks

Me: Ok, I’m going back to sleep.

Hubs: Well, it’s just… I mean, GAH!

And then he threw his hands up in exasperation, sank back down, and did not say anything else.

Poor, asleep hubs. Thankfully, when he’s awake he normally has a foursome willing to play and can golf to his heart’s content. Now if only we could round up enough players for some friendly softball – I get four strikes, right?

Pass the Coffee

As you might have noticed, the blogging has been sporadic. Actually, to be more accurate, the blogging has been non-existent. I fully, and freely admit that it is not my fault – I blame the munchkin. Having a baby has been like having all of the responsibilities you had before the baby, and then adding in an incredibly needy cat to the mix. Not a whole lot of time for blogging…or sleeping.

photo(5)photo(1) photo(3)photo(4)photo photo(2)  Yesterday was the munchkin’s half birthday. I have been a parent for 6 whole months. Even after 6 months, I still have no idea what I’m doing. However I have learned one thing about parenting: if you aren’t tired, you’re probably doing it wrong.

Elusive Dreams

The munchkin has interrupted our sleep schedules. All of us seem to be sleeping at different times than we use to. photo-19

And in different places, too. photo-13 (2)

Sometimes we even have to share our pillow.photo-14 (2)That is ok, though. Having the munchkin here is worth changing up the sleep schedule.

This past week I walked into the bedroom after changing the munchkin. The hubs suddenly sat up.

Hubs: Everything alright?

Me: Yes, I was just changing him.

Hubs: Ok, I see. Are you going to bed now?

Me: Yes.

He was sounding a little funny, so I was not sure if he was awake or not.

Me: Are you really awake?

Hubs: I… I’m not sure exactly. I don’t think so.

Me: Oh, ok. Probably not then. Why don’t you lay back down?

Hubs: Yeah, probably should.

Then he lay back down and did not say anything else. I asked him about it later and he had no idea what I was talking about – he was definitely asleep the whole time.

At least some things will never change, even with the munchkin being here – no matter how little sleep he gets the hubs will still talk through it!

Laughter is the Best Medicine

I am really looking forward to the munchkin’s first laugh. I know it is still a little premature to be expecting a giggle, but I keep hoping.

The munchkin does lots of smiling, just no laughing yet.

The munchkin does lots of smiling, just no laughing yet.

Laughing is just so wonderful, and I want him to have that joy. Plus, laughter can make a bad situation better. Last week we had a situation that wasn’t funny at the time, but that we could laugh about later.

I was up reading in bed when all of the sudden the hubs sat up and started shaking his arm.

Me: Whatcha doing?

Hubs: My arm’s feeling funny.

Me: Oh, ok.

The hubs continued to shake his arm. I thought he was awake, but was not completely sure.

Me: Are you asleep?

Hubs (yelling): No, I’m very awake! Don’t assume the worst about me! Why do you always do that? You shouldn’t assume the worst!

Me: Excuse me? What is wrong with you? I’m not assuming the worst, I just didn’t know if you were awake!

Hubs: Well, it’s just something you always do. Just STOP IT!

Me: Well, FINE!

Then I slammed my book shut and went to sleep in a huff. The next morning the hubs and I had a discussion about what had happened: apparently he was asleep for the whole thing. And he was quite surprised when he rolled over in the morning, and found an extremely grumpy wife!

At least we were able to laugh about it later; the hubs saw the humor in it much sooner than I did. Laughing together makes everything better. I know that when the munchkin finally does laugh it will have been worth the wait.

Curl up and Dye

The dog does not have picky taste buds. She will eat really anything that is put in her bowl. This I do not understand, as rawhide does not appeal to me at all.

Yummy!

Yummy!

The hubs has a more discerning palate. For one thing, he does not like peanut butter. Since I think peanut butter is the nectar of the gods, we would probably not be together if I had known this about him before falling for his many charms. The dog loves peanut butter, too, so I have not told her about the hubs’ aversion to it. I don’t want the knowledge to harm their relationship.

This past week, the hubs started talking about terrible tasting things in his sleep. I was fast asleep when he started yelling in his sleep, and did not fully wake up until he was almost done with the diatribe.

Hubs: This dye job is terrible!

Me: Hmm…

Hubs: The dye job! It… it just TASTES AWFUL!

Me: Uhhuh…

Hubs: I just don’t know why they can’t get it right. I mean, it’s not that hard. But, man. This one really is terrible.

Me: Yeah…

Then he rolled back over and I went back to sleep, feeling badly for the poor hubs that his dye job tasted so terrible. Hopefully it at least tasted better to him than peanut butter does!

Personal Space

The dog is not very snuggly. Personal space if very important to her. On very rare occasions she will sit on the hubs’ lap so that they can “sing” to each other:

Making beautiful music.

However, most of the time she prefers to be by herself, snuggled up on a pile of warm laundry fresh from the dryer.

So nice and toasty!

So nice and toasty!

The hubs is not so generous with personal space when he is sleeping. He is, in fact, a bed-hog. He sprawls out, taking up almost all of the bed with his long arms and legs, occasionally striking out with an elbow to get even more space. The majority of the time I just live with it, resigned to my sliver of bed, and just scoot him over if his stretching threatens to knock me right out of the bed.

This past week I woke up because the hubs’ elbow was burrowed right into my armpit. I found myself on the EXTREME edge of the bed, with my poor behind hanging right off of the bed.

Me (pushing back on his elbow with one hand and his back with the other): Hey! Scoot over!

Hubs (not moving, because I am like a little fly pushing on him): What are you doing?!?

Me: Scoot over! My butt’s hanging off the bed because you’re taking up the whole thing!

Hubs:You have a cold butt? I just don’t know why you’re still awake…

So, did I mention that the hubs stayed asleep through all of this? Yes, the man did not wake up at all, even as I pushed him to try to scoot over. Suddenly, he scooted toward me. Now I was really afraid I would fall out of the bed!

Me (grabbing him to steady myself): Hey! I’m going to fall off the bed!

Hubs: There, there. It’s ok. It’s not that cold.

Then he patted my rear twice, pulled some blankets up on me, and didn’t say anything else. And I was left to wonder what on earth had just happened, and how was I to get him to actually scoot over.

I finally rolled him over so that I had more room. I love the hubs, but sometimes I think it would be easier if he was more like the dog: lots of personal space for both of us!