Today is Peter’s 7th birthday.  He’s the only one up and is already happily putting together his LEGO dump truck, which I bought back in December with some BOGO pre-Christmas sale.

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Midwife said 1-2 cm and thin.  Not at all worth the indignity to obtain that info.  I told my sister I was going to start doing squats, and she told me to wait until after Peter’s birthday.  I’m definitely not walking.  There’s a heat index warning from 11 am until 9 pm.  Our town is doing their fireworks tonight, and I’m trying hard to generate enough enthusiasm to go, despite the heat, the crowds, the walking, etc. 

There’s a board at the midwives that lists “ladies-in-waiting” and their due dates – it goes out about 2 or 3 weeks.  The oldest date posted is poor “Amy” who was due June 21st.  I’m next, with some gaps showing that others have already delivered their bundles of joy.  Once you have your baby, your name gets moved to the other side of the board and they add a pink or blue circle with the baby’s name and weight.  I hope Amy goes soon.  I can wait until tomorrow.

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While I was at the midwife, the owner of the house came through with a realtor to discuss what needed to be done to put the house on the market.  He, the owner, has been saying for months that he planned to have a painter come in and do everything (all the walls are the same beige and all the trim is high-gloss white).  Despite this, Bill had spent the previous week spackling the holes where we hung our pictures (or furniture had caused a dent) and touching up those spots with that flat beige color.  The walls look great.  He hadn’t had a chance to do any touch ups on the trim, but I insisted on two things: first, this is not our walk-through…we’re still here for 2 more weeks, and secondly, the guy said he planned to paint, so he should expect normal wear and tear of 30 months of occupancy.

{insert eye roll here}

According to Bill, the guy touched and commented on every single spot in the woodwork that needed to be painted as if it was proof positive that renting to people who actually spend time in the house was a huge mistake.

Meanwhile, there are still a few things I have not yet deep-cleaned.  One most glaring place is the door frame between the kitchen and dining room.  The trim in the rooms is fine, but the door frame itself is really really gunky.  Disgusting.  That was completely unnoticed.

The owner also seemed upset about a few things I had told him about.  The ceiling in the sunroom is bowing.  It leaks when it rains heavily, too.  Sometimes quite badly.  I’m happy there were only toys out there – no furniture or electronics.  I told him several times, and he sent his buddy out to look.  Since it only leaked with heavy rains, it was not considered a big deal, I guess.  I mean, I only had to move toys and mop the floor a dozen times or so.  But that bowing ceiling: not my problem.

Oh, and the front door he painted black that faces west and gets full sun all afternoon long?  Yeah, I told him the paint was peeling on that, too.  He really should have installed a powder-coat paint finish door from the get-go because you can’t expect any painted surface to survive long in direct sun 24/7/365.

{sigh}  Just hoping we get our deposit back in full.

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Speaking of deposits, the water company, despite me sending them proof that I had paid a $95 deposit, told me to pound sand, which is mil-speak for “take a long walk off a short dock.”  I may not get that money back, but EVERYBODY will know about it.  If I do get to the town’s Independence Day celebration tonight, I feel bad for anybody who crosses my path wearing a name tag indicating they are in any way connected with the town government.  If you see a very grumpy, very pregnant woman heading in your direction: RUN!

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And last bit of complaining, I am so thankful that my replacement box spring is slated to be delivered next week, but the timing could not be worse for it to break.  My lower back and hips ache so badly from fighting the black hole in the center of the bed that keeps trying to suck my husband and I in.  I spent the night perched on the edge where it was firmest, no easy trick for a woman approaching 41 weeks of pregnancy.  I think I’ll have Bill put the set on the floor to see if that works better.  Sad to say, but I think an air mattress might be more comfortable at this point.

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Yesterday somebody asked me if this was my last baby.  She said it with that hopeful, encouraging tone that made me feel the only acceptable answer was, “Oh, yes, I am SO done!!!”  Instead, I pointed out that I’m 41, and that time was running out on my biological clock.  I’m not one to be offended by silly remarks made by people who don’t understand large families, but I find the expectation that I should want to be done very amusing.  First of all, the number of children I raise has zero bearing on this person’s life (why does she care if I’m done or not?), and secondly, I wonder if there is some deficiency in my current children which would make someone encourage me to stop.  I mean, if my children were ugly…or violent…or spoiled, I could see someone begging, on behalf of society, for mercy.  Not that I agree, mind you.

But when you and your husband seem to be producing a bunch of good-looking, decent human beings who give all indications that they will become productive, good citizens…you would think that society would be cheering: MORE! MORE!