The first thing I did last night when I walked into our house after living for four days in a place where the most technologically advanced piece of hardware was an indoor toilet was turn on the TV and press PAUSE. For the next 45 minutes I pressed PAUSE and then PLAY over and over again, not for any particular reason other than that I could. And then I went outside, stood on the porch, opened the iBook and brought up Kottke.org on the browser. Life never seemed so right and perfect.
For the rest of the night I replayed the moment on “Survivor” where Jeff Probst revealed the last vote, the one that said “Burton” and meant that somehow, somewhere, those remaining three women pulled their shit together, and I felt totally proud to have a uterus. So proud, in fact, that while the TV was paused I stood up and did a pregnant belly dance, and I have to say that if you’ve never seen a pregnant woman doing a pregnant belly dance, you’re totally missing out on one of the most hideous things in life.
Our stay at my mother’s house was pleasantly uneventful, despite the shakes and fever I suffered from wireless internet withdrawal. I managed to go a whole four days without stealing a single piece of my step-father’s bologna. He recently had heart surgery, and I didn’t want to send him into a potentially hurtful fit of rage over a missing piece of congealed mixed meat. I’m gentle and understanding that way.
The best part about coming home was seeing the finished hardwood floors, and I had to be physically restrained from dropping to my knees and licking their shiny goodness. It’s just that small victories like these are what is going to get me through these next seven weeks of pregnancy. I am already so uncomfortable in my bigness that I constantly feel as if my diaphragm is sitting on my back teeth, and I cannot maneuver the baby’s feet out from under my lungs. No amount of coaxing or pushing or thumping or threatening to limit “Dora the Explorer” storage on the TiVo can get her to extract her toes from my third rib. And with as many weeks as I have to go, the baby should more than double in size, which basically means that by the end of this her feet should be sticking up my esophagus and poking out my mouth, and I’ll look as if I’ve just swallowed an 8lb baby.
Here is a photo of the hardwood floors in the kitchen after we had scraped and scraped and scraped (did I mention that we scraped?) all the adhesive and remaining linoleum. Underneath all that adhesive and linoleum was gray lead paint, the original treatment of the floors when the house was built in 1926.
This is a photo of what is by far the most adorable man on the planet, preparing to go into the attic to lay wire for the dishwasher and microwave.
This is Jon, having just returned from his mission to the Moon, wiring outlets for the countertop. I so married the right man.
Here is Chuck watching Jon wire outlets. That look on Chuck’s face is the one that says, I know you’re busy, but I haven’t had a treat in at least three minutes, and I need a treat.
Here is another shot of what the floors looked like after all that scraping. You’ll also notice the water line for the refrigerator, the gas line for the range, and a blocked-off heating vent, all things we paid a plumber to fix/install. I hope our baby doesn’t want to go to college, because the month before she was born we had to hire a plumber.
Drumroll please . . . the finished hardwood floors, wide planks of fir that look good enough to eat.
My belly at 33 weeks. I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of our family: