Sunday, October 30, 2011


The anxiety set in when a nurse at the surgery center asked me how old Porkchop was.

"Just shy of seventeen months."

"How much space will there be between him and your next one?"

"Twenty-one months."

And then it kind of donned on me. I have four months. Four months?!?!?! 

We have Halloween. Check.
Then Thanksgiving. 
Then Christmas.
Then Scrunch's Birthday. I have to make it to Scrunch's birthday!
Maybe, just maybe I will get to see David Garrett in concert and Valentine's Day. 
And then I will fall into the black hole of newborn-ness. 

Holy Crap! I only have four months!! 

All of sudden I got itchy and twitchy. 

We've got to get things done! I've got to get things done! 

I sat down with my husband and we talked about what we could realistically accomplish on the house. Starting with tearing out the last of the tomatoes. Yes, we still have tomatoes in October. I hate tomatoes. 

I am (so help me!) going to get my internship credits counted and the two classes I have left finished before this baby's head crowns. So help me! I will no longer be a BYU statistic. A woman who left college before completing her degree to have a family. Before I need a Minivan, I will have the piece of paper that qualifies me for ten dollar an hour jobs that are no-where to come by. You can see why it hasn't exactly been on my radar. But I'm going to do it. So help me! 

I have timelines and to-do lists. Christmas shopping and crafting is carefully plotted. I keep swearing that I am going to sit down and put my feet up. I am going to spend more time knitting while the kids color. And then I hear myself say, "Sure. No problem. I'll take care of it." Then I stay up until midnight watching NCIS with Miqui and John. It is always on and neither of them like House Hunters International. We're tying leaves to the eighty invitations I have just committed to drop off  by 8:00am on my way to work.  

Self-imposed madness. I am a professional.

I smarted off on Facebook that I did not understand people who did not want to live in California. I don't take it back. I can't picture ever regretting saying it. While the rest of the country is carving pumpkins in their turtlenecks, sipping cider, and stockpiling wood for the winter, all things that I love, this year I opted out. There is not a price tag on my sanity. Ask my husband. For a few hours last weekend we had the option of running away to the beach and pretending it was still Summer. I've still got all the time in the world.

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