So, let’s see. Some stuff.
Well, first and foremost, the bathroom of hell? Is done.
This bathroom was so atrocious that we don’t even have Before pictures to share with you. It was bad. Royal blue, textured walls with this sky-blue “marble” countertop on top of a monstrous, “original” vanity. Linoleum your grandmother would be embarrassed of. It was terrible.
My husband is a miracle worker, is what I’m saying here. He did all of it himself, hand to God, with me only supervising in the way of picking out everything before he installed it. The bathroom feels luxurious now, and I’ve actually taken three baths. (I have bathed in that room exactly once before the remodel. In four years.)
So we’re now officially into soccer season, even though the first game was cancelled due to rain. Tony takes soccer VERY seriously and MY GOD no one will get a ball into his goal. I’m not even sure he’s supposed to be playing goalie, but he knows at least that much of the rules, so he’s dedicated to the cause. Uncle Dude and Aunt Gee (whom he suddenly calls “Michael” and “Jenni”, like some sort of ADULT) are fantastic coaches who make the sport way more fun than it probably should be. The best part is that we all go to dinner together after Tuesday night’s practice, and we always stay out too late.
Who cares if you win when you’re having fun, am I right?
The baby – Vinnie – is progressing nicely, although he is quite the excited little man. About thirty weeks is when you start wondering if he’s trying to find his way out, Alien-style, and when that didn’t go the way he wanted, I worried that he was trying to claw out using the preferred route. He’s active, way more active than I remember Tony being, but I also don’t remember what I had for dinner last night, so maybe my memory is not up to par is what I’m saying.
I go back to the doctor in a week or so, which kicks off my every-other-week appointments, and I’ll probably start looking at maternity leave at that point. I like how everyone asks me when I’m leaving, like, you know, I’m rich or something and can just say, “Oh, when we away to my summer home, I suppose,” but in reality, it’s whenever the leave is paid for.
And I can’t even complain about that, because do you know that most Americans don’t have paid maternity leave? That’s the truth. The scary, terrible truth.
Lastly: isn’t this headline amazing? I read it way early in the morning last week and thought it was my lack of caffeine that was impairing me. But no. I think I read it the right way.
AND THE CREPE MYRTLES ARE EATING OUR BEAVERS HERE, GUYS.