Noah got his BIG big boy bed last weekend. The crib made its final transformation from toddler bed to full-size bed and we’re lucky to be exchanging our guest room nursery queen size mattress with my parents’ full size mattress. For some reason, the full size seems so much more manageable than a queen. And have you noticed that adorable sheet sets for kids don’t come in queen size? It’s twin or full, baby. Speaking of sheets, I have spent far too much money at PBK and Target on shams and sheets and waterproof mattress pads and pillows to outfit his new bed. That doesn’t even include the duvet cover that I have yet to purchase because I can’t make up my damn mind about what I want. So he’ll have to survive with an uncovered down blanket for the time being. I don’t think he’ll care. It’s me I’m worried about.
Also a problem is the fact that I keep falling asleep at 8pm in his bed with him, twin rivers of drool coming out of our mouths. Noah loves this, I don't. I must nip this in the bud lest he becomes too accustomed to having Mommy sleep with him. Even if his bed IS far more comfortable than mine.
The bigger bed means I have to rearrange the furniture in his room. I don’t know if I can properly explain my love affair with rearranging rooms. It is borderline sick and obsessive.
The stairs are FINISHED. One year, people. That’s how long it took our lazy asses to rip up the carpet (June 2010), stare at the remaining beat up wood stairs (June 2010 – March 2011), decide the hell with refinishing and just paint the damn things all white (late March 2011), begin the process of screwing down a hundred years of squeaks, wood-filling, sanding, caulking, priming, painting and painting and painting (April 2011-June 2011). And ta-da! Squeak free, smooth painted gorgeous stairs.
Lesson to impart because I am nothing if not helpful: gleaming white stairs + husband who forgets to remove shoes + preschooler who is perpetually grimy + cat who sheds a pound of fur a day + dog who shadows every human going up or down = constantly scrubbing the no longer gleaming white stairs. We may be investing in a runner at some point.
I hope this goes to show you that, while handy, we are slow moving when it comes to home improvement. I wouldn’t hire us to do any work in your home, just sayin’.
When you are dyeing clothes BLACK (or, in this case, old maternity pants back to black), do not use the nice wooden spoon to stir for the recommended 30 minutes. It will come out looking disgusting. Instead, dig through your utensil drawer and use the old, BLACK, plastic slotted spoon that you melted in the dishwasher a few years ago.
You're welcome. Now I have to go buy a new wooden spoon.
P.S. I know I've been absent here for, oh, WEEKS but I promise to be back soon with updates about a whole lot of nothing. And a picture of the big ol' belly as Noah calls it. I have no excuse other than I have been busy and tired and lazy.
I take the train everyday to and from work. To be honest, I have a love/hate relationship with public transportation. I love it because it's relatively faster than driving through the city at peak hours, saves me some gas, and the train line I take is probably as clean as it's going to get in this city. I hate it because it gets crowded, REALLY crowded, maybe half the population in any given car has showered that day, and when it gets hot out it gets smelly. Seriously, how do people not know they smell? I KNOW when I smell a little funky...like after gardening all afternoon in 85 degree weather. I would not consider stuffing myself into a boxy train car after that. But the rest of Chicago doesn't seem to mind. It baffles.
Smelly people...that was not my point. My point was that this morning, as I stuffed my rotund self into a packed train car at 7:30am, I noticed a seated gentleman (and I use that term extra sarcastically in this instance) give me the once over, rest his eyes on my protruding stomach area, look ME straight in the eye, and go back to reading his paper. Oh I could have KILLED him on the spot. Now, I am not one to demand that all pregnant women get a seat on a crowded train. I understand that seats during rush hour are rare and to be protected with your entire being. However, I cannot condone a young man, no more than 30 years old, basically note that a near 6 months pregnant woman is standing in front of him and then IGNORE that fact to go back to reading his WSJ. Where the hell is this man's mother? I should ream her out too.
I had to stand for the duration of my train ride while this douche read his paper and periodically checked his phone for messages. If I was wearing pointy shoes and had been about 6 inches closer he would have had an "accidental" kick to the shins (or balls if accessible) as I exited the train. I hope he had a shitty day at work and got fired.