Discovering the places we live.

The painters began painting my unit right as the coveted morning nap time began. As I’m sure any parent of a young baby can relate, a restful nap in the morning makes for a happy baby in the afternoon. An unrestful nap, or worse, no nap at all, will leave you with a fussy, sleep-deprived maniac (Which is how you feel every day, all the time, but that’s besides the point). It was enough to make me consider stepping outside and saying, “Excuse me, I know you have an entire apartment building to paint today, but unfortunately it is nap time, so I’m going to have to ask y’all to leave. NOW. Before I get crazy.”

Nevermind the fact that, absurdly enough, the painters were contracted to begin painting before management had even decided on a color for the complex, so for a while, the painters were just going nuts with varying color schemes until management saw one they liked. It looked like the apartment version of a clown car.

Soon, all of this will be behind me, as Husband and I are looking into (brace yourself) buying a house. We figured living in a studio apartment is pretty fun, but it might get a little crowded in thirteen years or so when Collin arrives home with a troop of teenage friends to raid the fridge and talk about lady parts (or whatever teenage boys do). In all seriousness, the sorry state of the housing market these days is the only way we will ever get our foot in the door of home-ownership, and hopefully we will get help from a down payment assistance program, or it won’t happen at all. But, being the optimist that I am, I will keep my sights set on a house of our own, with lots of cabinet space in the kitchen, and a swing set in the backyard.


Discovering Elmo.

Oh, my poor, neglected blog. I have about ten blog posts a day running through my head, but no time to sit and write them. Who knew having a baby would be so time-consuming? Add to the fact that I have been losing my battle with mastitis, a breast infection with the power to turn you into a zombie. Blogging be damned.

On a brighter note, if pacifier spitting was an Olympic sport, my son would be a gold medalist. Once, I woke to find he had spit his pacifier out and it landed perfectly between my breasts. 10.0.

I was one of those to-be parents that SWORE I would never expose my infant to television, but, as with countless other things I have SWORN, that sentiment has gone out the window. As my punishment, I now have to listen to Elmo squeal about his crayons and his goldfish every day and the most appreciated music that gets played around here during the daylight hours is performed solely by kazoo. There is something about Elmo’s glass-shatteringly high pitched voice that puts Collin in a trance. It stops him mid-cry. It keeps him captivated for twenty minutes at a time. Now, that fuzzy little red puppet has taken control of our lives, the first of many children’s characters to do so, I’m sure. There have been many moments where my husband and I will be having a conversation, and the baby will stir, and suddenly we’re speaking in an Elmo voice. I miss my dignity.