I have not posted regularly lately because I am an anxiety-driven, nesting momma. At 35 weeks gestation, feeling Baby George's every shimmy, shift, and kick, I am increasingly aware that I've hit the home stretch, and although excited, I don't feel mentally or materially prepared to have this dude on the outside with me yet. I have cleaned a lot more, parted with a good amount of clutter, and had the girls' room re-arranged by my husband. Still, none of George's gear is unpacked, set-up, washed or organized. I have a random hives-looking rash on both wrists and arms which my doctor is treating while admitting that he does not know what it is... and I'm now ingesting prescription drugs with George still in utero (the OB assures me none of this is harmful to the baby). Still. Freaking out.
Pregnant or not, itchy or not, ready or not, the world of family life continues to swirl around me. My son's First Holy Communion is in two weeks, my daughters' dance recital falls on my due date, and between now and then I have way way wayyyy more appointments (mine & theirs) and activities scheduled than I sanely should have at this point. I should be home with my feet up. I should be washing with Dreft and folding baby clothes. I really should go out and buy that infant car seat. You know... on top of the daily homeschooling, feeding, and general maintenance of this family. And getting ready for a First Holy Communion. I should probably buy the boy a suit that fits, for instance... (sigh).
Instead, I am pounding away at this crazy-stupid, frenetic pace... Thankful for every minute (even when exhaustion, apprehension about labor [It has been six years; why didn't' I take a Bradley Method refresher course!?] or late-night insomnia cause me to burst into tears.) Really. It is all good. I just still have big issues with letting things go, and with accepting that which is outside of my control. I will sometimes miss an activity. I will not always have a house that is swept. Dinner is going to be soup & sandwiches some nights.
I am going to have to swallow my pride and accept help from people.
Thank God for my husband, my increasingly helpful, growing children, and the support of good friends. Furthermore, words don't quite convey what healing and relief I got from a much overdue confession with a wonderfully pastoral priest.
ANYWAY, enough venting. I'm here to post about what I wore on Sunday (do you see what is happening in this brain!? Chaos! Disorder! Ack!!)
Without further ado, here is how I looked for Mass. We're up by 6:45 am, and we leave the house at 8:15, to get to CCD on time. I had to search unfolded piles of clean laundry to find my one pair of (ugly) pregnant-momma tights. Thus, I had no choice but to skip makeup and earrings to get to the church on time... This is another "Lee needs a full-length mirror in her room" shot; my buttoning of the blouse is less-than-ideal. I am not including feet in the shot on purpose, because my choice of shoes = a big ditto on the full-length mirror.
For anyone who doubts that make up and earrings drastically improve an outfit/demeanor, I present to you "how I dressed up for dinner guests later that evening:"
|A little less severe, right?|
|35 weeks: This baby bump is getting pretty big!|
Shirt: No Boundaries (non-maternity) via Marshalls (seriously like 4 years old)
Necklace: You've seen it
Earrings: I've had since high school, via my mom, but never ever wore them as a youth because I found them too conservative/old-fashioned (???!) Whatever. I guess I've grown into them.
Boots: forget about it.
We have lately taken to singing the Stevie Wonder tune, "Isn't she Lovely?" to our daughters, who of course had never heard it before. (Again, as a young person I'd hate hate hated that song... Boy does life change a person!) Anyway, Emre decided to remedy that yesterday; he downloaded the tune and played it for Gianna on the iPad.
|Gianna's impression: "That sounds like a chicken."|
|Let's just say they both have momma's taste in music... |
|John Paul "helps" mow in style.|
|What they wore Sunday: Smiles. Big ones.|