“Omg”
“What?”
“It’s disappearing. I think it disappeared more just today”
“chuckle“
“Omg”
“Where are you going?”
“I am going to mourn my belly button.”

Walking through wal-mart the other day, David and I made our way through the toy aisles in our respected fashions… He walking and I waddeling. As we were doing so it dawned on me that what we were doing was not merely birthday present shopping, but our initiation into a new cult, parenthood. And so the hazing process took the form of a pooh water baby, a heffalump book, a wireless playstation remote and a package of batteries. The party was good, my stomach was being introduced as the third member of or family, so I guess there is no hiding it anymore.

And we finally decided on the theme for the nursery. Disgusted with the pinks and yellows and bears and flowers and licensed corporate character whores of the modern day baby abode, as well as the outrageous price tags (I’m sorry, did you say $500?), I’ve decided to make the nursery bedding. Not only could I not justify spending even $100 on an over glorified explosive pooh catcher, I couldn’t find anything remotely resembling something I could live with. Walking into a nursery at three in the morning to a screaming baby is difficult in its own, walking into a nursery at three a.m. filled with prozac manifested flowers and sail boats in all their faux hand stitched, chinese imported glory, mocking the situation would make me even more neurotic. And so, at $40 and some free time, we have something david and I can agree upon and the baby can poop on guilt free.

We have decided to drop Sage as the girl’s name and just use Solaris if it is Boy or Girl. Solaris Nicholias Albury or Solaris Lodovica Albury.

:) I’m liking this baby more everyday, until he (still don’t know the sex, but calling it a he for the time being) decides that my bladder is a trampoline and those muscely-ligaments of mine were put there for the sole purpose of baby hiding places, in which he curls up into a boney ass ball and I double over in pain.

Anyway, eigthteen months as of tomorrow! He has been moving a round and kicking me, i complain but i love it. I needed some sort of validation that he is there. David was kissing my belly last night and the baby kicked him, which was the first time he felt him move. So he was excited, and so was I because the baby kicked him in the head which i could relate too sometimes (hehe, only half joking).

Came back from Pittsburgh on Sunday. Kristin and Scott came to visit me, my mom had a baby shower for me, Andy ate dinner with me and I left weepy and home-sick, a new experience for me to which I will chalk up to the hormones. When the plane took off florida bound the baby went crazy and bounced around like the demon possessed child i take him for sometimes for a few minutes. Apparently he thinks as highly of flying as I do.

Doctor’s appt. update… Everythings good! 15 weeks, probably another 6 or so until we find out the sex. Doesn’t matter, buying things in yellow and loving the little seamonkey anyway.

David’s mom took me to the appt. David’s mom reamed me out about not making dinner for her son after he comes home from work. I told David’s mom he never made dinner when I came home from work. David’s mom said that doesn’t count because I didn’t work outside. I told David’s mom nothing after that because I what I really wanted to say to David’s mom wouldn’t have been very productive to the future relationship of my child and his/her grandparents.

Does it look like I have the word “Housewife” written across my head? Let’s break it down for a minute housewife is a derivitive of the words “House” and “wife”. Now the word “wife” suggests a level of insanity, a pledge to slavery, and a ring. Now I don’t see a ring on this finger, therefore I don’t see a ring.

Now I know “House” looks familiar and is easily confused with “home” as in what her son and I have mutually agreed to creating, also seen in “homebusiness”, something of which her son and I agreed to so that I could be a “housemom” and since have spent a good ten to twelve hours working on each day since I was able to move from the fetal “kill me” position of my first trimester. Just because she cannot respect the level of work that I do and have done because I choose not to be blue-collar out in the sun, does not mean that I don’t work hard. I have done to much, seen to much and accomplished too much to be insulted by the likes of a middle aged housewife.

Don’t get me wrong, I love David, but the only person in the world I have a commitment to is the seamonkey. David is 21, he can take care of himself. I love him, he loves me, somethings he cooks me dinner, sometimes i cook him dinenr, sometimes we both do it. Eventually someday I may choose to take care of him, but not until he learns to take care of himself. It is hard work undoing the evil bonds of “mommies youngest” which can damn near destroy a person, but someones got to do it ;) j/k. Although it has helped me decide that maybe moving far far away isn’t that bad of an idea after all.

…Isn’t that lovely.