My good friend and neighbor–you know, the one who talked me down from a cliff before Merrick’s big fat skull surgery–has yet again gone above and beyond by inviting us to pick her peaches and shake her tree.
So we did. Observe:
The feel of fresh peaches in my hand. The smell of fresh peaches in my nostrils. Life is beautiful and I am physically sick on account of all the fresh peaches I have eaten in the past 6 days.
My family used to live in Italy. In Italy, we had a pointless stone wall behind our house. We would easily scale this wall and steal away into the cover of a massive peach orchard that seemed to reach beyond the boundaries of freaking Fantasia. We’d load up and gobble peaches and make peach pie and just generally love life because it was Italy with free peaches.
Of course, it was Naples, the pollution capital of the world, and the peaches were essentially stolen…but still.
I shared this information with the kids, and Merrick just about lost his mind. Now I have 2 giant plastic cups full of peach pits because he’s in the planning stages of his own massive orchard. And you know what? I’m cool with it.
Since we’d be making mad memories. And also tons of peach pie.
And, because I have soooo much room in my tummy for food, (*read: none at all, but I’m going to keep eating anyway) here is a fact:
That awkward moment, when everyone’s predictions of an unbearably hot August just became right. Congratulations guys, on your incredibly accurate projections! Turns out I have indeed hit my wall.
It’s becoming increasingly difficult to spend any length of time away from my fridge. Let’s go ahead and include other comforts of home in that statement: my bed. My shower. My corner of the couch with my pillow. Air condition. I don’t like to wear shoes, or really? Even clothes. (I do though, anyway, in a noble effort not to scar my own children.)
I can’t sit for long. I can’t stand for long. I could manage to lay for long–real long–if my bladder would cooperate for more than 15 minutes at a time. My non-existent ankles feel like they’re about to crack and crumble. I’m shuffling and waddling everywhere I go. People tell me “Oh you look so great, you look so cute!” But here it is: I feel like a sow. A sweat-dripping, milk-leaking, sleep-deprived, diabetic angry sow.
(Sadly I know this is also how I will feel for at least 3 months postpartum.)
Is this pregnancy at 34 vs 28? Or is it part of fourth child syndrome? Or maybe it’s just a typical Oklahoma late summer 3rd trimester. I’m not sure how to explain why this wee little baby is particularly hard to carry to term. I’m ashamed of how gross and lazy I feel this time around. She’s super NOT ready to come out just yet so I’m resorting to coping mechanisms to make it for another several weeks–namely long naps directly under the air-condition vent. That and of course, peach pie.
Thank God for good friends and neighbors.