Okay, it’s been a little over three months since I’ve written here, and I apologize profusely…
But – I have good reasons. First I had to get the yard ready for a beyond-humongous swing-set we bought for Connor with our tax return. This involved weeding virtually every inch of garden I had created in my “our house will look like a Victorian garden” phase (believe me – I made some dreadful design mistakes, which I will talk about in another post) in order to make use of the eight yards of mulch I bought foolishly thinking my husband would help me spread (it’s been sitting in the same spot in our yard for five years – how was I to know we’d have a Connor and he’d be working so often he wouldn’t be able to help?) The next step was spreading all of that hateful mulch. Don’t get me wrong, I love the way mulch makes a garden look so clean and “finished”, but this pile had been staring me in the face for five years and was – needless to say – full of happily growing spaghetti weeds. So, I patiently began pulling the awful roots and weeds from the edges of the mulch, and away we went. The gardens I had enough mulch for looked beautiful, the pile was gone – as was the grass that was originally under it – and it was time to build the swing-set.
A word of warning, ladies – DO NOT EVER let your husband begin the process of putting together anything prefabricated without first going through all the pieces yourself, separating them, labeling them, and replacing any missing parts! I had offered to take these steps myself while Lee was at work and the boxes of swing-set parts were sitting in the driveway, but he had insisted that it would make his part more difficult. I relented – solely on the basis that I didn’t want to have a fight. Next time, I’ll not say anything and just do it. After three days of unseasonable heat, unexpected trips to Home Depot and countless hours of cursing – the swing-set was finished. The last step was de-thatching what seemed like miles of neglected lawn. This entire process took from approximately mid-April, through to the end of May.
Then, to our utter surprise – the septic tank overflowed. Lee was leaving for work, and needed to use the bathroom, and when the toilet overflowed, he was ready to take the day off to deal with it – which I found ridiculous. I insisted that he go to work as usual, I can plunge a toilet, and assured him not to worry. Well, hours of plunging did nothing, so I called my mother, who offered to bring my niece over to play with Connor so we could remove the toilet and snake the pipes. Again…nothing. I called a good septic pumping company, and it was done in an hour and for only $235. Problem solved. I used the resulting mess as an excuse to renovate a 40 year old bathroom, so we’ve been diligently removing tiles from the walls, stripping wallpaper and getting as much out of there as we can. Thankfully, we have enough left over marble tiles in our cellar to do the floor – and we’re doing all the work ourselves, so it’s only going to cost around $600 or so for us to do the whole thing…toilet, pedestal sink, bead-board wainscoting, everything.
During those two months, I felt great – I was getting exercise every day, my breathing was improving (I still haven’t quit smoking, but that’s coming soon), my yard was starting to look pretty, and my energy levels were increasing. When I was finally able to start removing piles of fallen and cut branches, my energy levels suddenly plummeted, and even though I spent two solid months working my ass off in the yard – I was gaining weight. Talk about depressing.
I spent about a week wallowing in self-pity – and Lee making a comment that I was going to get fat if I didn’t lay off the ice cream was the last straw. When my period was a day late, I immediately took two pregnancy tests. When they both came out positive – I was terrified. Here we are, with me 38 and Lee nearly 42, house- and child-poor, with me out of work at least until Connor can go to school full time…and we’re expecting again. I hid the stick from the second test until the timing was right to tell Lee.
Two days after I took the test, he was cleaning up a case of glass-bottled root beer that he dropped in the driveway, and Connor was in bed and staying there for the first time, so I took advantage of the situation, went outside and said – “regardless of how much ice cream I eat, I’m going to get fat anyway”, and handed him the stick. I could lie and say that his reaction was wonderful and that he said “don’t worry, we’ll work it out”, but that only happens on TV and in fairy tales. He immediately wanted me to abort – and I had to remind him (in between rants and about eight times) that we didn’t find out I was pregnant with Connor until I was nearly 5 months pregnant, and that an abortion might not even be an option. He still wouldn’t shut up. Our sex life hasn’t been great, but we’ve done it often enough that he was just being an ass. Finally I said – “Hey! I’m scared shitless too!”, and turned around and went in the house. He came into the den about five minutes later and said “I only said you would get fat from the ice cream because I wanted it.”
That was mid-June. I found an OB/GYN (my last one was a bitch from hell, and I refused to see her again – she actually gave me shit while I was giving birth to Connor) and made an appointment…for July 7th.