Musing on the present. Reminiscing about the past. Posturing for the future.
Forty weeks from an October in Mexico.
Sharaun had her final pre-due-date doctor appointment yesterday. Doc said things are moving, but slowly. They set next Tuesday as the date they’d induce her if Cohen is still reluctant.
I don’t think she’s all that excited about the prospect of induction and I can’t blame her, so we’re both praying for an un-hastened delivery before that.\
Maybe today?
That’s what they called the day before Operation Neptune, the Normandy Landings.
While not quite of scale with that historic day, today is our D-1 for little Cohen. The day that some oracular M.D. fortells the coming of our next child. And while I’ve never really considered the due-date any real go/no-go kind of thing, it does carry with it a feeling of a “line” being crossed. Some arbitrary boundary before which things are “on time” and after which things feel “late.” Silly, really, but as humans we like such milestones and markers – we crave measurement. So tomorrow is our measurement spot, as finger-in-the-wind as it may be, and we are indeed waiting for it like it means something.
And with this date so close that “walls closing in” feeling I wrote about a few days ago is only growing stronger. It seems like each day the house actually get less and less in order. Between me making a mess of things building a closet in Cohen’s room and just the crush of new baby-things from showers and hand-me-downs, and down to the slowed-pace of general upkeep – the place is in dire need of some cleanup. And with the hours ticking away (even if measured against that arbitrary mark) the outlook for a nice tidy homecoming for Cohen is bleak. On the other side of the domestic coin, work has been oppressive of late. I don’t know why ugly management issues tend to rise up and bristle when they do – but now is not the time. Add to that a dash of busy-as-fire and I’m close to running away.
So Cohen, I can’t wait to lose myself in your newness once you’re here. Not because you’re my escape from this stuff, but because you’ll just add another weight on that “life” side of the work vs. life scales. And we’re ready for you anytime: clean house, dirty house, work issues, whatever. Take away all the deadlines and waiting and it’s just our quick and simple prayer that you’re healthy and happy – and that’s about it.
Goodnight.
Tuesday and no Cohen yet. Only two more days before the “official” due-date, but who’s counting?
I spent the better part of each day of the three-day weekend working on fabricating a closet (where there was no closet) in what will be Cohen’s nursery. It was a long project, and at the outset it fought me every step of the way, descending into the familiar comedy of errors that belies most all my attempts at carpentry or home-improvement. But with only minor cussing and swearing I worked through the kinks and managed to get the thing “done.” “Done” in this sense means the hard part is done, but that the project as a whole is still incomplete – I’m just going through the do-something-then-wait phases of mudding the new wall, sanding, priming, texturing, and painting and each step has some “OK now let it dry” period before you can move to the next step.
Looking at the results, I do feel a sense of pride in my work and I’m happy I save the $400-$600 someone would’ve charged to do it (based on Craigslist estimates), but honestly in the end I’d have rather paid that $400-$600 than burned ~30 hours of my holiday weekend with my arms over my head. Looking at it in that light $400-$600 seems a pittance for the time it would’ve saved me. Time I could have used to clean the house for Cohen’s pending arrival as opposed to the messing it up more I actually did. Heck, even if I value an hour of my time with family at a measly $25, $400-$600 for 30+ hours of work is a steal. In fact, $25/hour might be a good “measuring stick” figure to use in the future when considering these “DIY or pay” kind of tasks. If I can answer “yes” to the question “Would I pay $25/hr to not be doing task-x?,” then I hire someone.
Yup; this project has simply helped me rationalize my laziness as a lot less lazy a a lot more prudent use of time and energy.
Until later.
T-minus one week and counting suckas. This baby is coming. Time to write.
Coming off our family sickness I made the call to stay home Tuesday and rest. My body needed it and I wanted to keep an eye on Sharaun after she’d lost so much fluid during her bout the day prior, make sure she re-hydrated appropriately. Around noon Keaton got a little restless, having tired of reading and coloring and me not wanting to feed her any more TV shows to pass the time. And, since I was feeling a mite better myself, I decided we’d tackle some father-daughter project to both keep her occupied and get her out of Sharaun’s hair so she could rest and recuperate.
I decided we’d turn the apricot harvest into jam. See, the apricots were a disappointment to me. The tree produced a ton for its small size, I was happy with that, the fruit was good-sized and ripened well, and the birds didn’t destroy the crop as in years past (I think they had their fill on plums, which is fine – since there were at least a hundred of those things I had some to spare for the birds). But the fruit itself just wasn’t that good. The flavor was lacking and the texture was mushy and just unappealing. A pretty big disappointment for a tree I planted with hopes of a yummy yearly harvest. So I had this bowl of apricots that I was 1) extremely proud of and 2) bitterly disappointed in (I wonder if this is how my folks felt when their straight-As whiz-kid teenager overdosed on psychedelics… just a random thought), and I figured I’d try to salvage the harvest.
When I made this decision I didn’t have any jars, any canning pot, and tools, and equipment, nor any idea how to make jam. But heck, how hard could it be? But we actually had some pectin in the pantry (I have no idea what for) and it had instructions for making any type of jam or jelly a body could ever imagine. Looks like all I’d need would be an insane amount of sugar, some canning jars and a big pot to cook them in. Right then… Keaton and I set off to the store in search of jars and made a phone call to a friend to see if we could borrow her canning pot and jar-holding crimper things. An hour or so later we returned home together all ready to make our first foray into the world of preserving (sometimes they call this “canning,” even tho there are no cans, right?).
A few hours later we had eight jars of what turned out to be some pretty dang delicious apricot jam. Keaton helped by pitting the fruit, measuring out the sugar, and even stirring the hot fruit slurry. We had a great time and I like the apricot jam a heck of a lot better than I did the apricots themselves.
Goodnight.
Oh boy y’all. Feels like an age has passed since my Sunday night entry.
Soon after we’d gotten Keaton down after her bout with a sour stomach, my tummy started signalling distress. After a couple hours it was in absolute knots, and midway through the night I joined Keaton in bowing before the toilet. The sickness came quick and strong and that Sunday night seemed to stretch on forever and ever between consoling Keaton through her vomiting and coping with my own. I felt like I got zero sleep and that the sun would never rise. Luckily, Sharaun seemed OK throughout the night. Unluckily, that only lasted until mid-morning Monday. With Keaton already acting a fair bit better, I was completely out of it due to lack of sleep and dehydration. And before noon Sharaun started complaining about “knots” in her stomach. Later in the day she’d round out the bug’s trifecta. With Cohen only seven days away, I was especially concerned about keeping her comfortable and hydrated. But, by Tuesday evening as I write, we’re all steadily on the mend.
When we bought this house the room that is now slowly being converted to Cohen’s nursery was a “den option.” This means it’s a room, but instead of a wall has a set of French doors leading into the living room and the niche where a closet would be is just a niche. We swooped in after another buyer’s deal had fallen through all those years ago, and they’d already made that interior choice – the room had been framed that way and there was no changing it. We didn’t mind; in fact we liked the openness that the French doors allowed. We’re even keeping those doors as we transition the space into Cohen’s room – figuring he won’t mind much. We do, however, need that “niche” turned into a proper closet. And after two months of calling Craigslist flakes to try and get someone to come do it for me, setting up missed appointment after missed appointment with prison-tatted “contractors,” I’ve decided I’m just going to do the dang thing myself. Can’t be that hard: build a box out of 2x4s, hang that box, put drywall on the box, tape, texture, paint and hang a door. Done. Right?
So anyway I’m going to build a closet this weekend. Unless, that is, I have a son instead.
Goodnight.
Today after church I spent some time “readying.”
Readying for Cohen. He is expected to join us in a mere ten days. I cleared out a cupboard to make room for bottles and nipples and all manner of things we’ve not had around in years. We moved Keaton’s dresser (now Cohen’s dresser) into the new nursery and began loading it with the tons and tons of new and hand-me-down clothes we already have. (Poor Keaton, her big-girl furniture is still on backorder and she’s still sleeping on the floor on her princess air mattress.)
I began wading through the gift bags still piled high from Sharaun’s showers, sorting and stowing what I could – diaper bag, baby toiletries, diapers, etc. I took apart Keaton’s old infant carseat so we can give the insides a good washing, and I began cleaning Sharaun’s car a little before I full inherit it as my own. Sitting here now at eleven o’clock and surveying the work, I feel a lot better. Just small things I know, but small things that at least make me feel like I’m doing something.
Tonight Keaton came home from the first night of a five-night church program at her friend Mary Grace’s church. Both girls seemed to have had an excellent time, and they hung out and played for a while after getting back. After about twenty minutes of playtime, I heard what sounded like one of the girls coughing or choking. Running back to see what was wrong I met Keaton in the hallway and she was telling me, “It was just me coughing, dad.” She then turned and walked slowly towards the bathroom. Before I could do anything, she was coughing and sputtering again and it all let loose. After the first volley of vomit I was able to nudge her over the toilet bowl to catch the rest, and I stayed with her until she was done. I got her in the bath and got the bathroom cleaned up while Sharaun said goodbye to our guests. Poor thing has been throwing up pretty much every fifteen minutes since getting to bed – the last few just heaving, her stomach with nothing left to give; she’s resting with a large bowl at her side.
Her temperature is perfectly normal and we’re hoping it’s just something she ate
Goodnight.
Another week wanes.
Been working on the half best-of 2010 list, the bit o’ crazy in me that is trying to “get things done” before the baby comes wants to have that piece written and posted soon. Yes, somehow hitting my blog commitments is important to me, even though these “commitments” have been made to no one, and no one aside from me cares. So I wrote some of that this evening… you always have to listen to the records you’re writing about as you write them, it’s the only way to be objective.
Speaking of the baby, today is the 24th of June and Cohen is supposed to come on the 8th of July. By my math that’s exactly fourteen days. Fourteen days! How did this happen so quickly? Where did the time go? How did my wife’s belly get this astoundingly large? And yes I’ll acknowledge that due-dates aren’t 100% – but the human gestation period is pretty consistent. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if it were less so. What if term for a “normal” pregnancy was much less predictable, varying by months instead of weeks? Man that would be tough. “When’s your kid coming, Dave?” “Uhh… looking like sometime between July and October.” Thankfully that forty week average is pretty consistent.
Fourteen days. That’s ridiculously soon.
I am beginning to feel significantly un-ready for this. In fact I should stop writing now and do something to prepare.
Goodnight.