Day 24 and sadly, no news means just that. There have been no new Baby #2 developments to report, dear readers. Pregnancy is the same old, same old. (Well, other than contracting a nice head cold from B over the weekend, I suppose. Fuzzy, congested sinuses, stuffed up nose and pleghmy throat and not a thing I can take to get rid of it. Lovely.) Another appointment scheduled for April Fool's Day to see where we are at. Still have 9 days till due date.
Cold aside, we have been adamant lately about sticking with B's potty-training. Having realized shortly after she turned two years old, that she was already showing an interest in the toliet (it helped that her twin cousins were well underway with their own potty-training at the time) and was waking up from naps dry (and sometimes even in the morning), we decided to start putting her on the pot. For months we did it halfheartedly, still using pull-ups at daycare (although we often used underpants at home), getting her to sit down on the pot about 15 minutes after she had had anything to drink and just trying to encourage her that using the toliet is what big girls do.
Two weeks ago, we decided to give it a more concentrated effort. I went out and bought her an assortment of colourful, princess and cupcake-themed Big Girl Unders (her name for underwear), asked our daycare worker, Maggie, to follow suit with the training, and even got B Smarties as a reward for when she does the job well. As a result, she has gone pull-ups free during the day for two full weeks now. She has been pretty successful with pee. She goes whenever we put her on the pot, sometimes even announces to us that she has to go and has even held it in for a few minutes while her cousin Grace was busy doing her own business in the bathroom this past weekend. Poop, however, has been a whole other challenge.
For some reason, B always goes in her pants and then announces it shortly afterwards, asking to be changed and saying how it hurts. Of course, we get annoyed with this, as dealing with fecal matter is far more unpleasant than wet underwear. (Sunday was especially trying, as she clearly had eaten something that had not agreed with her and took three consecutive poops in her pants within two hours. Ugh.) We repeat the same litany each time. How she has to tell Mommy and Daddy (or as she reminds us, Maggie or Auntie Jackie or Grandmaman....) when she has to go BEFORE she lets the poop come out. How it's yucky and is a big mess. How yes, it hurts the bum because it needs to be in the toliet, not in her unders. How she is a big girl now, not a baby, who wears a diaper. But, still the poop....
After a few weeks of this, I began to wonder if she was just too young to be able to 'feel' the need to go and communicate the need to us. After all, she is still just two and a half, and maybe it was just too soon to get the message through.
This morning, as we do every morning, I brought her to the washroom to do her morning's business. No problem. A tinkle in the toliet and some praise. B insisted that Bunny also needed to go. (Months ago I had placed a doll potty beside her own for this express purpose.) She placed Bunny on the pot before her own business and went to get him after she had washed her hands.
"Ew! Big caca." She announced for Bunny, laying him on the ground, face-down. "Not good." She shook her finger at him. "Not happy. Didn't tell Mommy or Daddy. Now yucky. Got to clean you." She went to the wipes container I keep in the bathoom, pulled out a wipe and proceeded to wipe his 'bum.'
"Garbage now," she threw the wipe in the trash bin and went to collect Bunny. "Not good, Baby Bunny." She gave him a snuggle and came to me, laughing for a hug. "Got to tell your parents."
At first, I was a little upset by this scene, wondering if we have been too harsh in our condemnation of the poop situation and her inability to do it in the toliet. I even repeated the scene to Hubby while he was getting dressed this morning. B was bouncing on the bed, laughing as I told it, thinking it a great game that Bunny went caca.
Hubby looked a little taken aback, too. "Really? Not good, eh? But, you still love Bunny, right?" he asked her.
"Yes!" she laughed, grabbing up the grey-pink doll and giving it another snuggle, then jumping into her daddy's arms for a well-deserved hug. Well, at least she understands the potty message--and luckily, understands that Mommy and Daddy will love her no matter how long it takes her (and Baby Bunny!) to learn how to poop on the pot!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Day 19
Day 19 of maternity leave. Well, technically, it's still 'sick leave,' since my mat leave will not kick in until April 12th as the result of a bureaucratic screw-up at work. (Boy, do I love HR folk. It amazes me that administrative-type employees who a) hate people and b) hate their jobs somehow always end up working in 'human' resources. Do employers not screen for friendliness, professionalism and the ability to communicate and interact with other human beings when filling these positions?) Tangent aside, Day 19 is upon me and I find I have been attacked by a severe case of insomnia.
I can't fall asleep at night, I can't nap during the day and now I can't stay asleep past 5:00 a.m. Perhaps this is my body's way of readying me for a new round of sleepless baby-filled nights? Or is it just as my Hubby assumes and now that I am caught up on three weeks sleep, I am better rested to handle all the day has to offer. Hmmmm....
On another pregnancy-related note, I am now a possible carrier for Strep B--some sort of virus that although does not affect the mother in any way, shape or form, can be potentially dangerous for the baby when giving birth. (Consolation resides in the fact that it is only 1% of children who catch this virus while undergoing delivery, even though 30% of women test positive for carrying the virus.)
What does this mean exactly? I have to be hooked up to some antibiotics during the labour in order to vanquish the virus before it has a chance to take hold (should it ever take hold). In other words, as soon as my membranes break or I start having regular contractions, I am to get to the hospital ASAP in order to get as much antibiotics into me as they can during the labour, which the good-natured doctors believe will be much shorter this time around than with B.
Naturally, I live 45 minutes away from the hospital, which is still another 30 minutes from my husband's work downtown. That puts me at over an hour away from the meds if I start labour during the workday--and even longer if it happens during traffic hours. Yes, I have done the math. Yes, the bags are packed by the door. Yes, my Hubby wears his Blackberry at all times, waiting for the inevitable phone call that says "Get the hell home!"
I can't fall asleep at night, I can't nap during the day and now I can't stay asleep past 5:00 a.m. Perhaps this is my body's way of readying me for a new round of sleepless baby-filled nights? Or is it just as my Hubby assumes and now that I am caught up on three weeks sleep, I am better rested to handle all the day has to offer. Hmmmm....
On another pregnancy-related note, I am now a possible carrier for Strep B--some sort of virus that although does not affect the mother in any way, shape or form, can be potentially dangerous for the baby when giving birth. (Consolation resides in the fact that it is only 1% of children who catch this virus while undergoing delivery, even though 30% of women test positive for carrying the virus.)
What does this mean exactly? I have to be hooked up to some antibiotics during the labour in order to vanquish the virus before it has a chance to take hold (should it ever take hold). In other words, as soon as my membranes break or I start having regular contractions, I am to get to the hospital ASAP in order to get as much antibiotics into me as they can during the labour, which the good-natured doctors believe will be much shorter this time around than with B.
Naturally, I live 45 minutes away from the hospital, which is still another 30 minutes from my husband's work downtown. That puts me at over an hour away from the meds if I start labour during the workday--and even longer if it happens during traffic hours. Yes, I have done the math. Yes, the bags are packed by the door. Yes, my Hubby wears his Blackberry at all times, waiting for the inevitable phone call that says "Get the hell home!"
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
She listens
She may be a bit lazy, but at least my new daughter listens to her mother. She flipped herself and is now facing head-down. Thank Gawd! But, just in case, I'll keep washing floors to keep her that way. Besides, Hubby is impressed with how mirror-like our hardwood can look!
Monday, March 15, 2010
Lying down on the job
Another day, another doctor's appointment. Nothing unusual there. I am 37 weeks pregnant, after all. Luckily, since I am an out-of-towner, the Hospital is good about booking all my necessary appointments on the same day. So, last Thursday, I was scheduled for a meeting with my dietician at 11:30 a.m., my obstretician at 12:00 p.m. and for an ultrasound at 12:45 p.m. A tight schedule, but we made it to all three sans real problem.
As for the dietician--she had another patient in with her when we arrived and the patient only exited at 11:55, giving me a total of five minutes to meet with her and race across the hall to obstretics. Anyhoot--all is well with my glucose numbers. Keep doing what I'm doing and no need to see her again, unless, of course, I want to show off the baby. Sure. I made an empty promise that I would and bolted out the door.
Carole, the obstretics nurse, took me immediately upon arrival and set me up with the usual tests. Blood pressure, weight gain (no change--third time in a row, proving that the diet is doing it's thang) and then off to tracing for 20 minutes of fetal monitoring. Couldn't do the urine test as I explained I had an ultrasound in 45 and the technician would be pissed if I relieved myself by even the teensiest amount. She laughed and agreed. She didn't think I'd have time to meet with my doctor before the ultrasound, so I was to come back up after my appointment and continue with the clinic appointment. Sounded good.
Fetal monitoring went well. 20 minutes of reminiscing about B's delivery while we sat next door to the one she was born in. Hubby remembered (not fondly, I might add) the fold-out chair bed, while I remembered the boring walls and thought--not for the first time--that the Hospital should really invest in some paintings, artwork or inspirational posters for the walls. Kinda dull to stare at for 20 minutes.
Carole came back and unplugged me just before we had to jet downstairs. Ultrasound seemed to go fine. The technician wouldn't really give us any results from it, but my accountant husband observed the numbers she was inputting and through some calculations, determined that Baby #2 is about 6.6 lbs at the moment, which would put her around B's weight at birth time (8.8 lbs). All is normal and #2 is healthy as can be. The best news we could hope for, of course.
Then, the technician added, "she's transverse" but went on to talk about her beautiful little hands and how she seemed to be playing with her feet. We thought nothing of it.
Back upstairs to meet with the doctor. Idle chitchat out of the way, she got to business asking me questions about my other appointments. She was pleased with my glucose results and happy with the weight of the baby. Then I mentioned that the technician said she was transverse (which means she is lying sideways, instead of head-down as she had been the last two appointments) and the doctor said, "What? Well, that changes things."
She called downstairs for a verbal confirmation and then came back in to tell us the news. If the baby did not change position by next week (which is when she may begin gaining too much weight to shift back), we would have to book a planned C-section at 39 weeks. Goodie.
In the meantime, she made an appointment for me at a different hospital to have the baby "manually shifted." In other words, if I can't get this kid to change positions by 10:45 tomorrow, some doctor will manhandle my baby (and me, I suppose) from outside and twist her into position. Apparently, it is a pretty painful procedure (sometimes requiring an epidural itself) that has a 75% success rate. I just keep envisioning the world's most painful Indian sunburn on my ginormous abdomen and it's enough to keep me up at night. And, of course, even if the procedure works, #2 could still be a disagreeable little monkey and decide she prefers to be horizontal and shift back sideways or worse--upside down, making the C-section necessary. Yippee.
So, I was given four days to get #2 to co-operate. I can't tell if she's moved or not, so today, I will get back on all fours and wash the floors like a crazy person (the exercise recommended to get her moving). I hope it works. Although a C-section is hardly the end of the world, it's not the route I want to take if it can be avoided--and two epidurals in two weeks might be more than I can bear. The epidural just didn't work well with B, so it wasn't something I was counting on this time around. Sigh. This baby isn't even here yet and she's already lying down on the job....
As for the dietician--she had another patient in with her when we arrived and the patient only exited at 11:55, giving me a total of five minutes to meet with her and race across the hall to obstretics. Anyhoot--all is well with my glucose numbers. Keep doing what I'm doing and no need to see her again, unless, of course, I want to show off the baby. Sure. I made an empty promise that I would and bolted out the door.
Carole, the obstretics nurse, took me immediately upon arrival and set me up with the usual tests. Blood pressure, weight gain (no change--third time in a row, proving that the diet is doing it's thang) and then off to tracing for 20 minutes of fetal monitoring. Couldn't do the urine test as I explained I had an ultrasound in 45 and the technician would be pissed if I relieved myself by even the teensiest amount. She laughed and agreed. She didn't think I'd have time to meet with my doctor before the ultrasound, so I was to come back up after my appointment and continue with the clinic appointment. Sounded good.
Fetal monitoring went well. 20 minutes of reminiscing about B's delivery while we sat next door to the one she was born in. Hubby remembered (not fondly, I might add) the fold-out chair bed, while I remembered the boring walls and thought--not for the first time--that the Hospital should really invest in some paintings, artwork or inspirational posters for the walls. Kinda dull to stare at for 20 minutes.
Carole came back and unplugged me just before we had to jet downstairs. Ultrasound seemed to go fine. The technician wouldn't really give us any results from it, but my accountant husband observed the numbers she was inputting and through some calculations, determined that Baby #2 is about 6.6 lbs at the moment, which would put her around B's weight at birth time (8.8 lbs). All is normal and #2 is healthy as can be. The best news we could hope for, of course.
Then, the technician added, "she's transverse" but went on to talk about her beautiful little hands and how she seemed to be playing with her feet. We thought nothing of it.
Back upstairs to meet with the doctor. Idle chitchat out of the way, she got to business asking me questions about my other appointments. She was pleased with my glucose results and happy with the weight of the baby. Then I mentioned that the technician said she was transverse (which means she is lying sideways, instead of head-down as she had been the last two appointments) and the doctor said, "What? Well, that changes things."
She called downstairs for a verbal confirmation and then came back in to tell us the news. If the baby did not change position by next week (which is when she may begin gaining too much weight to shift back), we would have to book a planned C-section at 39 weeks. Goodie.
In the meantime, she made an appointment for me at a different hospital to have the baby "manually shifted." In other words, if I can't get this kid to change positions by 10:45 tomorrow, some doctor will manhandle my baby (and me, I suppose) from outside and twist her into position. Apparently, it is a pretty painful procedure (sometimes requiring an epidural itself) that has a 75% success rate. I just keep envisioning the world's most painful Indian sunburn on my ginormous abdomen and it's enough to keep me up at night. And, of course, even if the procedure works, #2 could still be a disagreeable little monkey and decide she prefers to be horizontal and shift back sideways or worse--upside down, making the C-section necessary. Yippee.
So, I was given four days to get #2 to co-operate. I can't tell if she's moved or not, so today, I will get back on all fours and wash the floors like a crazy person (the exercise recommended to get her moving). I hope it works. Although a C-section is hardly the end of the world, it's not the route I want to take if it can be avoided--and two epidurals in two weeks might be more than I can bear. The epidural just didn't work well with B, so it wasn't something I was counting on this time around. Sigh. This baby isn't even here yet and she's already lying down on the job....
Friday, March 5, 2010
Banking sucks
Well, the title says it all. I hate banks and their utterly inefficient procedures. While I was packing up B's room for her big move across the hall, I discovered her little piggy bank, stuffed with cashola. She had some coin rolls I had tossed her way ages ago, as well as a $50 bill. I figured it was time to deposit the cash in her RESP we set up when she was born. Knowing that I can't make the transaction online (like deposit it in my account and then transfer it over), I decided to make a trip to the bank myself.
I have been very fortunate to have to visit bank tellers very few times in my financial life. My mother-in-law was a bank manager until her retirement a year ago, and since we always operated under her branch (still do!), any paperwork we had to complete, MIL just brought home for us. Our financial advisors were her friends and coworkers, so it was easy to set up appointments and it never seemed like a chore to go to her office for a visit. I never stood in line and I never dealt with tellers. And, to be honest, I don't handle much of the financial junk myself (Hubby is an accountant and much more in tune to that sort of thing. I rely on his expertise. Sad, but true.) I was very spoiled. I got used to that, and I probably should not have.
Anyhoo, that all ended last year, but since our new financial representative is still one of MIL's good friends (whom Hubby has known since he was a child), we still don't have a problem getting our banking done. However, little things like making RESP deposits is something I either have to plan with our rep in advance or go into the bank myself to handle. I figured, I'm on mat leave--I got the time. Why not go in myself?
So, in I went yesterday. Kinda raced in, I must admit, to beat the woman who pulled into the spot next to me. I succeeded. (Fistpump! Yeah me!) I got in the line ahead of her and there were only three bluehairs in front of me. I could handle that.
Realized that the last time I stood in a bank line at this branch was probably shortly after our wedding when Hubby and I went in to deposit all those generous cheques our family and friends had gifted us with. That means it's been well over five years.
And standing in line when your sciatica is acting up is not that much fun--especially, when one of the tellers (and there were only two on hand, notch) yanks on her monitor and completely disconnects it from all the cables attached to the wall and computer. We all waited patiently as she tried--valiantly, I must admit--to reattach the various wires. Clearly, not a techno-saav, she called in her bank manager. Between the two of them and the old guy they were serving, they managed to get everything sorted out and I was finally called up to the next wicket.
I whipped my huge ziploc bag out of my purse (keep in mind, I had like $150 in coin rolls, people! Money's money, right?) and said that I would like to make a deposit into my daughter's RESP account. The teller took my client card, started tapping away and then said. "Pardon?"
I explained again what I wanted to do and she said. "Oh no! If it's for an RESP, you'll have to make an appointment with a banker. I can see if there is one available this afternoon."
I had plans that afternoon (which involved copious amounts of shopping and picking B up from daycare. No time for bankers.), but arranged for an appointment this morning. I was pretty annoyed. Why can't I just make a deposit right then and there? I never had to do that with MIL. We would just tell her how much to put in the RESP and she'd do it for us. I'm telling you, I was spoiled.
Anyways, had to cancel the appointment this morning as a result of a terrible sleep and a ginormous backache that did not allow for me to sit properly. Been playing phone tag with the banker all day in order to reschedule, but really just wondering if I should wait until my doctor appointments next week, when I will be in town of the old branch. Hubby will be home that day and we could arrange something with our advisor. Would be so much easier than having some new guy try selling me financial services I don't need when all I want to do is deposit some bleedin' coins. Geez.
What do you think, Hub?
I have been very fortunate to have to visit bank tellers very few times in my financial life. My mother-in-law was a bank manager until her retirement a year ago, and since we always operated under her branch (still do!), any paperwork we had to complete, MIL just brought home for us. Our financial advisors were her friends and coworkers, so it was easy to set up appointments and it never seemed like a chore to go to her office for a visit. I never stood in line and I never dealt with tellers. And, to be honest, I don't handle much of the financial junk myself (Hubby is an accountant and much more in tune to that sort of thing. I rely on his expertise. Sad, but true.) I was very spoiled. I got used to that, and I probably should not have.
Anyhoo, that all ended last year, but since our new financial representative is still one of MIL's good friends (whom Hubby has known since he was a child), we still don't have a problem getting our banking done. However, little things like making RESP deposits is something I either have to plan with our rep in advance or go into the bank myself to handle. I figured, I'm on mat leave--I got the time. Why not go in myself?
So, in I went yesterday. Kinda raced in, I must admit, to beat the woman who pulled into the spot next to me. I succeeded. (Fistpump! Yeah me!) I got in the line ahead of her and there were only three bluehairs in front of me. I could handle that.
Realized that the last time I stood in a bank line at this branch was probably shortly after our wedding when Hubby and I went in to deposit all those generous cheques our family and friends had gifted us with. That means it's been well over five years.
And standing in line when your sciatica is acting up is not that much fun--especially, when one of the tellers (and there were only two on hand, notch) yanks on her monitor and completely disconnects it from all the cables attached to the wall and computer. We all waited patiently as she tried--valiantly, I must admit--to reattach the various wires. Clearly, not a techno-saav, she called in her bank manager. Between the two of them and the old guy they were serving, they managed to get everything sorted out and I was finally called up to the next wicket.
I whipped my huge ziploc bag out of my purse (keep in mind, I had like $150 in coin rolls, people! Money's money, right?) and said that I would like to make a deposit into my daughter's RESP account. The teller took my client card, started tapping away and then said. "Pardon?"
I explained again what I wanted to do and she said. "Oh no! If it's for an RESP, you'll have to make an appointment with a banker. I can see if there is one available this afternoon."
I had plans that afternoon (which involved copious amounts of shopping and picking B up from daycare. No time for bankers.), but arranged for an appointment this morning. I was pretty annoyed. Why can't I just make a deposit right then and there? I never had to do that with MIL. We would just tell her how much to put in the RESP and she'd do it for us. I'm telling you, I was spoiled.
Anyways, had to cancel the appointment this morning as a result of a terrible sleep and a ginormous backache that did not allow for me to sit properly. Been playing phone tag with the banker all day in order to reschedule, but really just wondering if I should wait until my doctor appointments next week, when I will be in town of the old branch. Hubby will be home that day and we could arrange something with our advisor. Would be so much easier than having some new guy try selling me financial services I don't need when all I want to do is deposit some bleedin' coins. Geez.
What do you think, Hub?
Monday, March 1, 2010
Cleaning demons
So, it's my first day of maternity leave and instead of napping, shopping for new baby gear online or watching court tv reruns like a normal person who finds herself with some free time to fill, I've spent the morning scrubbing floors, washing windows, painting walls and doing laundry (and checking blood, of course. Always checking blood.). I guess I've started nesting.
What kind of cruel trick of nature is it that forces barrel-shaped preggos, who would otherwise do anything to avoid cleaning, to get down on all fours and scour the paint chips off of a hardwood floor with nothing more than a bristly scrub brush and their own fingernails? Or to waddle up stepladders to whack cobwebs from ceilings and wash dust from the walls. It's like I can smell dust and lint clumps with my super-amped up pregnancy nose, and it disgusts me. Clearly, sanity has once again taken a backseat to pregnancy.
Generally speaking, I'm a normal person--I dread cleaning and only do it when I really can't stand the sight of the mess anymore or am expecting company or my mother and feel forced into the activity. And yet, hormones rule. I grunted over a bucket full of hot water and Mr. Clean (lavender scent, of course) and got busy this morning. I tackled the floor, the windows, the furniture and anything else that got in my way. (A lot of stuff gets in my way at the moment. Gawd! I am tired of this huge, awkward belly.)
I am glad, however, to announce that B's room is almost complete. If Hubby hadn't got my sworn promise last night "to not do anything crazy like try to move her bed in here"all by myself, it would already be done. Ready to surprise her this afternoon when I go to pick her up from daycare. But alas--I'm not supposed to move beds. So, I wait. Impatiently.
"What's the rush?" My husband asks.
B needs to be fully moved out of her room in order to finally put #2's nursery in order. (That's right. Even in our house with its five bedrooms, we don't have a proper spot for the new kid to sleep yet!) But, as he sees it, #2 will likely sleep in our room for the first month of her life and we could tackle the project when he is on paternity leave and has more time at home during the day to paint/screw/hammer/install light fixtures, etc.
To me, however, it's important that B be fully familiarized with her new room, her new furniture, her new place in the universe BEFORE #2 arrives and she feels like her 'stuff'' has been taken over by her new baby sister. I'm trying to avoid too many changes at once, and I think that's reasonable. Hubby gets it, but he still doesn't understand my desire to get things done right this minute.
"What was admirable is now bordering on obsessive," he observed when he found out I painted her bedroom door over the weekend while he was helping out my brother-in-law put up new siding on my sister's house. He was busy, B was napping and I was eager to get another thing crossed off the list. (I'm a big believer in lists--especially crossing stuff off of them. Sometimes, I'll add stuff to the list that I've already done, just so I can cross something off. Sad, I know.)
Anyhoot--the room's nearly done and B should be able to sleep in tonight. It looks great, if I do say so myself. I'm tempted to tell her to go sleep with Daddy, and I'll stay in it tonight. It's that cute.
Anyways, might as well get back to my 'spring cleaning.' I only have a few hours before the munchkin returns from daycare and I still have some more toys and clothes of hers to bustle into her new room.
What kind of cruel trick of nature is it that forces barrel-shaped preggos, who would otherwise do anything to avoid cleaning, to get down on all fours and scour the paint chips off of a hardwood floor with nothing more than a bristly scrub brush and their own fingernails? Or to waddle up stepladders to whack cobwebs from ceilings and wash dust from the walls. It's like I can smell dust and lint clumps with my super-amped up pregnancy nose, and it disgusts me. Clearly, sanity has once again taken a backseat to pregnancy.
Generally speaking, I'm a normal person--I dread cleaning and only do it when I really can't stand the sight of the mess anymore or am expecting company or my mother and feel forced into the activity. And yet, hormones rule. I grunted over a bucket full of hot water and Mr. Clean (lavender scent, of course) and got busy this morning. I tackled the floor, the windows, the furniture and anything else that got in my way. (A lot of stuff gets in my way at the moment. Gawd! I am tired of this huge, awkward belly.)
I am glad, however, to announce that B's room is almost complete. If Hubby hadn't got my sworn promise last night "to not do anything crazy like try to move her bed in here"all by myself, it would already be done. Ready to surprise her this afternoon when I go to pick her up from daycare. But alas--I'm not supposed to move beds. So, I wait. Impatiently.
"What's the rush?" My husband asks.
B needs to be fully moved out of her room in order to finally put #2's nursery in order. (That's right. Even in our house with its five bedrooms, we don't have a proper spot for the new kid to sleep yet!) But, as he sees it, #2 will likely sleep in our room for the first month of her life and we could tackle the project when he is on paternity leave and has more time at home during the day to paint/screw/hammer/install light fixtures, etc.
To me, however, it's important that B be fully familiarized with her new room, her new furniture, her new place in the universe BEFORE #2 arrives and she feels like her 'stuff'' has been taken over by her new baby sister. I'm trying to avoid too many changes at once, and I think that's reasonable. Hubby gets it, but he still doesn't understand my desire to get things done right this minute.
"What was admirable is now bordering on obsessive," he observed when he found out I painted her bedroom door over the weekend while he was helping out my brother-in-law put up new siding on my sister's house. He was busy, B was napping and I was eager to get another thing crossed off the list. (I'm a big believer in lists--especially crossing stuff off of them. Sometimes, I'll add stuff to the list that I've already done, just so I can cross something off. Sad, I know.)
Anyhoot--the room's nearly done and B should be able to sleep in tonight. It looks great, if I do say so myself. I'm tempted to tell her to go sleep with Daddy, and I'll stay in it tonight. It's that cute.
Anyways, might as well get back to my 'spring cleaning.' I only have a few hours before the munchkin returns from daycare and I still have some more toys and clothes of hers to bustle into her new room.
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