Not Really a Guest

I’m here for the duration.  As Little Cuter points out, she is not in charge of when the baby arrives.  He’s on his own schedule, shifting down and rising up, stretching and hiccuping as he grows and grows and grows.  I’m a houseguest until he’s no longer occupying her middle.  It could be a while.

My girl looks beautiful, although she’s uncomfortable.  Finding a position that doesn’t impinge on her breathing or sitting is a challenge, but she scoots around on the couch with a smile on her face.  This is a much anticipated,  much loved,  much wanted child..... we just wish he’d hurry up and join the party.

In the meantime, I’m grocery shopping and vacuuming and prepping dinner.  I’m collecting FlapJilly from preschool every afternoon and then collecting her Mommy from work.  It’s slow during the summer at the University which employs her, but her colleagues are making sure that everything she can possibly be asked is put before her before her leave begins.  She’s not bored, she is busy.

When it’s your house and someone else tries to do your chores there’s bound to be confusion.  She’s delighted that I want to cook (a fact which surprises me since she is a much better chef than I am) but worries because “you are NOT a neat cook, Mom!”  That’s true.  TBG reminds me of that every evening when he steps into the kitchen to repair the damage I’ve done.  Somehow, food seems to fly off the cutting board, off the counter, out of the pan.  The floors have drops and drips and peels.  The counters look like WWIII took place there, in miniature.

I promised to try my best.  So, today, after cutting up the veggies and marinating the meat I took towel and Mrs. Meyer’s cleaning spray and got to work.  I am typing in a very clean space right now.
I’m not a guest.  I’m her Mom.