The price of a sale
The condo is still for sale.
I was very excited last week, to be able to tell you that we had sold it.
But it fell through.
Again.
Yes! Two sales falling through! What are the odds? As I have lamented to Darling Husband, “we have shitty luck in real estate.”
To make matters worse, we found out Sale #2 was falling through on Baby Boy’s birthday. Depression City, population: us.
And so our lives continue to be consumed with booking showings and answering phone calls and answering emails and rescheduling showings and booking last-minute showings. But mainly CLEANING FOR SHOWINGS.
I am so tired of our plans being cancelled at the last minute because someone wants to see the place RIGHTNOW, and we have to clean like mad. Of having to reschedule our plans because someone wants to see the place in three hours, and we need to clean first. Of having absolutely no idea when someone is going to call or email to book a showing, and turn everything upside down.
The thing about trying to sell your place is that you are always “trying.” You can’t turn down showings, because what is that person is “the one”? And so you show. And show. And show.
It is a beautiful Saturday — the kind of day where everyone on Facebook is buzzing about the gorgeous sun and warmth and blue sky — and we are stuck here, cleaning. We have a showing in just over an hour.
We are trying to deal with mounds of baby stuff, mounds of our own stuff. We have taken countless carloads of crap to store in my mom’s basement. Occasionally, we need to bring stuff back. It is an endless cycle of trying to move, hide and arrange our crap.
And the bloody CLEANING.
The CONSTANT cleaning.
Cleaning on a DEADLINE.
With a BABY UNDERFOOT.
This is very hard on our marriage.
A year ago today …
… it was two days before my due date.
My water broke.
I went to the hospital.
And I began what ended up being a 17-hour labour that turned into a C-section.
I can’t believe that was a YEAR ago. I can’t believe that tomorrow, I’m going to be the mother of a one-year-old!
My Birth Story
Public service announcement: When your husband goes on vacation
I miss Darling Husband when he’s at work.
But sometimes? When he’s home?
He drives me friggin’ insane.
I feel like a bitch even writing this! I love my husband like crazy! We’re coming up on our anniversary (three years married, 11 years together), and he’s the sweetest, kindest guy ever.
But …
Well, you see, he’s on “vacation” now. I say “vacation” because he’s only off from ONE of his TWO jobs. He’s on vacay from the “good” job, but is still working the “blah” job (as well as picking up some extra shifts there, because clearly the man would go crazy if he had some free time?).
And I … well, I’m used to being on my own with Baby Boy, pretty much day in and day out. Sometimes Darling Husband is home in the evening. Sometimes we see him for a bit during the day. He has days off, and those are great.
But for the most part, it’s just me and the little guy. I keep up with the chores, I get my freelance work done, I do activities with Baby Boy. Things are kind of dull sometimes, but they are very routine-heavy and there is a certain comfort in that. And SHIT STAYS CLEAN! Yes, even with an active baby!
Now that Darling Husband is on vacay? Things are MESSY! And … and I’m not used it! Not to this degree, anyway. Usually he is only home for a few hours here and there, and that’s not enough time to make a huge mess. But now I’m constantly looking at his Path of Destruction. Glasses, keys, remotes, clothes, cords, papers, socks, work passes, iPods, cell phone. Everywherrrrrrrrrrre!
He is not a slob. He understands the concept of cleaning up. It’s just that he does not think anything needs to be done THIS SECOND like I do. He is so melllllow that he doesn’t mind looking at a mess for hourrrrrrs before actually doing something about it.
*Twitch*
*Twitch*
I am trying to get over my neurosis and just enjoy that he’s around more. I really am. But I am a creature of habit (understatement police, arrest me now). And I am also a creature of TIDY. And of cleaning stuff up RIGHT away, and then we can move on and everything is happy and sunshine-y!
I’m trying.
Really.
But DEAR LORD — if you could see the messes!?!?
You’d twitch, too!
Moooooooo
I am drying up.
Yes, it’s finally happening. The weaning.
After almost one YEAR of breastfeeding (I’ll just hold for applause now, because damnit, I’ve earned it), my boobs are almost done being milkbags and will go back to just being funbags.
I’m still getting up twice (sometimes once!) a night to nurse Baby Boy. During the day, I only offer “myself” three times — before morning nap, before afternoon nap, and before bed. He has stopped grabbing at my shirt asking for it between-times, which is a good sign.
When I do nurse him, I definitely don’t feel like I have much to offer. My lovely luscious adult-film-star boobs are gone, sadly. He doesn’t even nurse for very long before grabbing his soother, popping it in his mouth, and just closing his eyes to listen to me read.
He is doing it. All on his own. I never thought I would see the day that my boy would be anything other than boobie-obsessed — although I’m sure he’ll get obsessed again when he’s 11 or 12, har har.
And it’s time. I feel it.
I wasn’t ready to stop when I considered it back around his 10-month birthday. I was all emotional and sad and Awwwww-I’ll-miss-it.
But now, it has been happening so gradually that I know we’ll both be OK. We’re both ready. We have slowly transitioned, and now our before-nap and before-bed reading sessions (currently we’re on The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe*) are now more about spending quiet time together, instead of ravenous nursing.
Baby Boy turns one (ONE!!!) on Monday. At that point, I’ll probably take advantage of Darling Husband’s semi-vacation to have him start going in during the night with formula. That’s the thing I want to have the most (an entire nights’ sleep), and it should discourage him from waking up if he’s only getting formula. Then, gradually, I will cut out the nap-nursings, and then the bedtime one.
I don’t have a date circled on the calendar of when I will stop completely.**
I don’t need one.
We’re almost there.
*I’d forgotten the crazy stuff in this book. A family of beavers feed the children BOOZE from a FLASK, and it warms them up and burns their throats and helps them to sleep. Woah!
**Darling Husband is already counting down to the La Senza shopping trip for new, sexy bras, though.
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