We’ve got this garden, see, in the corner of our backyard, right? I take absolutely no credit whatsoever in its development, except to say that when Caleb asks about or suggests certain things to put in it, I give him the obligatory "Sure, sounds great, fine, whatever." And as of right now, we’ve got onions, onions, onions, and berries. Granted, most of the berries are still green; just give us a week or two. Caleb and I sampled the 2 lone strawberries that were red–they had to be the single most delicious things I’d ever put in my mouth. Mia’s been dying to try a blueberry, but those are still only half the size of her little pinky fingernail. And our blackberry bushes are going ape. It’s going to be a great summer.
Sure, he’s planted other things; some I’m not so thrilled about (okra) and others that I can’t wait for (tomatoes, yellow squash, jalepeno peppers). Last year our garden turned out so many tomatoes and peppers we just couldn’t keep up–until Caleb took it upon himself to learn to "can" things–they should actually call this process "jarring" because that’s what it is–and no, apparently it’s not just little old ladies in West Virginia who do it. And while the pickled okra isn’t exactly my cup of tea, I’ll eat the hell out of some homemade salsa.
Caleb spends…a lot of time out in the garden. If he’s not gardening vegetables, then he’s gardening flowers. If he’s not doing that, then he’s mowing the lawn. Or weed-eating something. With him being home everyday, the yard is looking gorgeous. Yesterday, in an attempt to help him out, I tried to weed-eat stuff. I mostly just ate up the little plastic-y do-hickey wire-thingy, and my hands are still numb and my ears are still ringing, but the area around Mia’s playhouse is somewhat trimmed down now. Caleb has forbidden me to touch any more yard machinery, though…and I’m pretty sure being pregnant has nothing to do with it.
After I was told to "put the weed-eater down right there and step away", Mia and I decided to relax in her nuclear-orange pool. (The neon-blue pool blew away in a freak windstorm. We looked all over the neighborhood and couldn’t find it anywhere.) I don’t know how long I was out there, but I am fried to a crisp today. My face is red, and of course, Caleb, Mia and Cheyenne are all bronzed to golden perfection. I have a check-up today with New Doctor; after the lecture that I’m sure to get, I’ve got a laundry list of questions and complaints but mostly complaints:
- Contractions–they suck. Hard. Make them go away.
- Feet–mine are starting to swell up like balloons. Freakishly big balloons.
- Water Breakage–highly over-rated. Can’t you just break it for me? (if it hasn’t already broken on its own, and no, I can’t tell.)
- Hands–my left one is constantly going numb for no reason and I don’t like it.
- Eating–I’m a big fan of it. I’d like to do more of it. But I feel like puking even after the teensiest meal. I couldn’t even handle my customary chocolate syrup with ice-cream last night.
- Peeing–are you authorized to send me home with catheder and a baggie taped to my leg?
- My butt–it hurts.
- My legs–they hurt, too.
- My back–don’t even get me started.
Well, what do you know? I couldn’t make it to 10. Hmm. I’m sure I’ll come up with something by tomorrow. Unless, of course, we have the baby today. In which case, just because it’s Cinco de Mayo (Happy Cinco de Mayo, by the way), I’ll feel compelled to name him Diego for real, and then expect people to believe that we’re really not Mexican. Really. Not that there’s anything wrong with being Mexican. Or Native American. Or Sicilian. Or anything else people assume my husband and daughter are. When Mia was a baby, everywhere we went, people asked "Is her daddy Mexican or Indian?" A lady at the library got downright pissed off when I told her "No, honestly, she just has brown hair and brown eyes. She just does for no reason."
Oh, yeah, and speaking of judgemental people–IS IT A CRIME FOR A PREGNANT WOMAN TO BUY BEER? Do you see a pregnant woman with a 12-pack at the grocery store and automatically assume she’s going to chug the entire thing by herself or something? If I were drinking and I ran out of drink, a pregnant woman seems like the most logical person to make a beer-run. I’ve been the chosen one the past 3 weekends–and everytime I stand in line with that box of Keystone, I get these God-awful glares of disapproval–little old ladies, cashiers, drunk-off-their-ass construction workers–their eyes all seem to say "Doom on You"…O, those horrible, evil eyes of utter hatred and death…
…Please, people. I’m too busy burning myself with sun to worry about getting trashed on cheap beer. Besides, it’s not like I could keep it down even if I wanted to…which, God, at this point, do I ever want to. That said, I think I’m going to let Caleb handle the beer-buying until I’m a little less with-child.