who am i

Wouldn't it be funny if I really tried to wax Socratic or Shakespearean or what-have-you in this inconsequential space of internet? "And today we shall be discussing the id vs. ego as it pertains to one, Jessie Pope..." No.

Who am I? That is the question, properly accentuated. The reason I ask is I feel like I'm going through some kind of midlife crisis at the tender age of 28. A few fundamental things are just...changing or leaving or evolving. Not anything serious! In fact, you'll probably eye-roll vehemently when I expound on what I mean.

Take...alcohol. Jess of yesteryear (Jessteryear, if you will. You totally will.) had the palate of a nine year old. My buzz was attained through purely sugarfied means e.g. Mike's Hard Lemonade, Smirnoff Ice (barf), Angry Orchard Hard Cider (stilllll a fave, mind you), or some concentratey juice blend that was ever so unobtrusively spiked with a quarter jigger of vodka or rum. Keep wine or beer or anything whose taste remotely resembles mature out of eye line, earshot or taste bud. But now? A glance at the happy hour menu of one of our favorite haunts stirs up a longing for a pretty pint of their microbrewed honey blonde. Wine tasting has become my jam. I like whiskey now. I just...what? I have to ask: who am I.

Or perhaps take the state of our apartment. I've never considered myself a slovenly person. My mom is not permitted to weigh in here. It's not as if I would have won any Mrs. Meyer's trophies or anything, but I've always erred on the side of tidyishish. Ok but in the last few months I've become a little obsessive about a-place-for-everything-and-everything-in-its-place. I can't sit down to begin an evening with Sean post-Bedtimeageddon until toys away dishes clean clothes folded. And I'm kind of annoying myself. Sean will do this Tazmanian Devil type thing where the room is picked up in literally 17 seconds but I can't have it the way he does it. Because toys that have pieces? All the pieces need to be accounted for and put together (like those stackable cups and woodenblock towers.)

all the offenders pictured

The kids' DVD basket? Alphabetized. (Nope. I jest not.) Not to mention I've completely overhauled the kitchen such that there is nothing on the counter that doesn't absolutely need to be there (microwave, latte maker...yeah that's it actually.) Knives have been mounted on a magnetic strip. Paper towels hang from under a cabinet. Produce in wire baskets on the wall. Kitchen Aid found a new home atop the fridge. I've rearranged every room we have and when the kids nap during the day I use the time to reorganize or stare at the wall and wonder what and how to reorganize next. I feel like I'm on speed. That's what speed feels like right?

Here's what I'm thinking after ruminating on the cause of all this maturation. Necessity is the mother of invention. Wait, no. Survival of the fittest. There's an adage that I'm trying to apply here, but they're not panning out so I'ma make one. Mothering necessitates survival. Or something like that but I think what I'm trying to say is I'm evolving to suit this particular season of my life. A liberally spirited drink spurs a moment of unwinding. A clean room produces order in my mind and soul. As a mom I'm pulled in various directions throughout the day. Well, not too many because our apartment is pretty small but it's kind of like, "wait you guys need to eat again?" and "Mom, can you wipe me?" and "[something unintelligible which loosely translates to "Mom that blond girl who you call my sister hit me in the face again."]" There are emotions felt and tantrums had, and the surest thing about each day in unpredictability. Which means it's kind of nice to have that glass of wine to run to and a spotless floor to cling to and a Good Wife ep to zone out to. (Julianna Margulies - so zen. I crave her stability.)

Those are the constants in my ever changing environment. I like my ever changing environment - it's funny and full of life lessons and opportunity and there are two freaking adorable kids that live there. But you know those tops with the trippy patterns that spin and spin and spin? Eventually they have to come to rest. In this case rest just looks like a whiskey ginger and alphabetized DVDs.

relentless for lent

So, this happened. It happened in the ten minutes it took me to clean the kitchen after breakfast. The greater part of me thinks that this is hysterically funny. Jordan lines things up - it's her thing. Puzzle pieces, food pieces, shoes -

- and every single solitary stuffed animal in her possession. Then there's the part of me that sees this...and gives up. Why bother? Does anyone care if I clean? Does it matter if anything looks tidy? It's just we three for most of the day, and do you think the two year old and the 6 month of old give two poops?

I give two poops Mom. I tucked them in my diaper for you.

Nope, they don't. So should I?

YES.

I have been on this weird, incredibly productive clean/declutter bender for the last two weeks. In fact, Sean completely deadpanned to me the other day, "Jessie -(and he only calls me Jessie when it's serious. otherwise it's Jess)- are you pregnant?" And no, I'm not, but it's a valid question. It's been nesting on speed around here. What I've noticed is this: I feel better that I've done something tangible with my day. I'm happier, and I treat people (husband+kids) nicer. I'm more patient. It's glorifyingly freeing to be rid of so much junk that has smothered the atmosphere of this apartment for three years. My physical environment is cleaner, therefore my internal environment is at peace.

After some contemplation, I landed on my Lenten resolution(s). It's usually something like no sugar, no candy, no junk. That's hard for me, but I haven't been buying that kind of thing of my own accord for quite some time now. My only indulgence is Hershey's chocolate milk on the regulah. So I don't think it'd be much of a sacrificial change to give that up this year. I have decided to DO more. Vague? Let me clarify. I need to stop laying around waiting for the day to defeat me, because it inevitably will if I let it. Instead, I will be making a concerted effort to accomplish even the menial, the trivial, the mundane. Homecooked meals every night. (Right now you all are like, yeah duh. But for me, not duh. I know, I'm awful.) A clean bathroom. Books read to my kids - with all the voices and all the enthusiasm. A made bed. A carpet that knows the glorious feel of a vacuum blowing through its hair.

I'm not saying all at once and I'm not saying burn out or exhaust myself. I'm saying, do something everyday! I want this place to become a welcoming environment. I want my babies to have good memories of Mom when she was young and of their very first home. I want Sean to not come home to me watching Finding Nemo alongside my young while the kitchen produces nothing but a feast of squalor in its undone dishes and unwiped counters.

I know, I know. Lent isn't about doing things for you, it's about giving things to God. That's what I'm hoping to do with this Lenten plan, though. I intend to DO in God's name, for my family's sake. Double whammy, see. So, in the words of this shirt that I absolutely must buy:

via

I wish you all a blessed Ash Wednesday and a successful Lent.

ok i'm ready now

I had my (now weekly) check-up yesterday. As with Jordan, my doctor essentially told me to "get comfortable." I'm not technically due until next week so I wasn't expecting to be shuttled to the hospital or anything, but it's still not the most fun thing to hear at this particularly progressed point.

Especially because - I'm done! My projects are complete. Commence proverbial thumb twiddling. Half the apartment has been Goodwilled, furniture has been completely shifted from original setting, the patio is blossoming in it's glorious revamp, my "bedside nursery" is fully operational with side-table-turned-changing-table and nightlights et al, and lo, my hospital bag is packed. Jordan and I fill our mornings with menial errands and then while she naps I'm given to fits of running the dishwasher twice in a row and vacuuming our freshly steam-cleaned carpet. Also, I cook meals now apparently. Who Am I.

Really though, I feel okay about waiting this last little bit. I'm antsy to meet this guy, (and since my belly is frequently taking the form of shark-riddled waters with a rogue foot or arm sliding its way up and down the entire area, I'd say he's feeling out an escape route as well) but it's been pretty nice having this time with Jordo. Her budding conversational skills have me chortling hourly (upon The Prince of Egypt's frequent outbursts into song, I'm firmly instructed to "nance" with her allll around the living room; her new pronunciation of "truck" is especially disconcerting on the freeway where there seem to be "big **cks mommy!!!" just about everywhere) and I really feel like we've had a good little stretch to examine each other more closely as mother and daughter. When I was working it was go! go! breakfast, play-clothes, car, bye!! then, ok here's your dinner and off to bed with you! Now we take it slow, the day unfolds organically and little errands crop up to keep us busy. It's kinda great.

I guess what I mean is: ok baby, show yourself. But also, thanks for giving me a little time to spend with your sister...and to exorcise the nesting demons. I'm done, and you're welcome anytime.

The following is proof of all my projecting. Snore, I know. I neglected to take "before" pics so here are old ones I dug up in an attempt to show the previous layout:

 clutter

 claustrophobia

couch nemesis

what Sean sent me when he was in the middle of disposing of the sectional from hell

And now, with the layout flipped (couch where TV and bookshelves were, and vice versa)

 pregnant toes cameo

gallery wall (I'm so OCD about that blank spot on the left. Still have a couple frames left to get) and new black couch outfitted with ugly, already-owned-these pillows. 

Full disclosure, that couch is super uncomfortable. It'll be better once I get proper, not-hideous pillows, but I guess you just get what you pay for with furniture. And this was cheeeaaap. I do like its lines and the clean, sleek black, but dang, I wish it didn't feel like a bench in a prison yard.

Miscellaneous enterprises

 I created a coffee nook for Sean next to the oven, instead of sprawled in the middle of the main counter as it was before.

 Child, you shall sleep in that rocker, and you shall be changed 87+ times a night on that side table, 

then you shall feast beside me as I attempt to return to slumber, and finally you shall be returned to that rocker.

Hey there hospital bag. You and I have a date. It's coming soon.

So, apologies for all the "projects" posts but they've been dominating my life. Now I'm done and I'll try to dig up something marginally more thought provoking. Or maybe I'll just have a baby and post 1200 newborn photos. Which do you prefer?

drumroll 3+ months in the making

Remember I said this half past forever ago? And then I made these (ok fine, mostly my Aunt Mary made them) in a zealous fit of stick-to-it-tiveness? Well, it's only taken me over three months to follow through, but I do have a patio reveal for you. You can chalk it up to nap time productivity of a newly freed stay-at-home mom and/or 37 weeks of pregnant crazy, but I finally have my sanctuary.

This is what "sanctuary" looks like when it's in death's throttle:

cozy 

 nothing says "homey" like a pine needle ridden burlap runner

 Sean's & my attempt at keeping plant life: a "living" Christmas tree. that's dead.

 if you plant succulents, people can't see the squalor

packrats

So basically you'd probably contract a disease from stepping out on to our "patio," or as I affectionately think of it, the stoop of agony. Perhaps you can sympathize with what took so long to clean this crap up. 

Projects along the way:

after three trips to the dumpster

 before of free swing-arm eyesore

 during of armless swing-arm eyesore

new grayish BBQ station

Our kickass landlady, with whom I have a special rapport (we're always pregnant together) had our patio repainted at no cost, presumably because she understands the frantic desperation of nesting. So the pine needle stains, rain and tree sap residue, and overall yuck of the patio floor was stricken from our record.

Then I repainted our table frame the same color as that swing-arm table above, threw out the chairs which I'm preeeetty sure were purchased before I was born (the set is a hand-me-down from my grandparents), nailed up the bike (which Sean insists! he'll ride again one day...I tried twice or twelve times to throw it out or Craigslist it), and yesterday finished up the several miscellaneous projects that were keeping me from posting my after photos. I potted succulents; hung the AMAZING portable Ball jar display which my friend Kimmy made - made! - by hand, and will eventually host my herb garden; and jerry-rigged some hangers out of rubber bands and thumb tacks from which the broom and mop are suspended.

I think that was proper ado, so without any further:

 view from the sliding door

 newly spray painted IKEA lamp with my hard-to-kill succulent choices

 the man station

 the man station extended (oh hey, I sewed that curtain by myself!)

jealous of my herb vessels? you should be. Jordan's outfit choices?...

...I told her not to go "ow-yide" without her shoes on, so naturally...

 stage left, and

stage right

FIN

external order

I was going to name this post "Spring Cleaning" but then I remembered when I named one of my posts "Maid Service" and I got all these spamsies about "we clean house for you." Do you think I've fooled the robots this time? I guess we'll see. (realllly just need to disable my anon comments but then I've lost hope forever of my mom figuring out how to comment..)

Ok. So. It's coming on sooner, much much sooner, than with my first pregnancy, but I am nesting and it's no joke. It's so not funny. I have been hating every square inch of this apartment; I have my eye on four large pieces of our furniture that I'm burning to revamp/refurbish; I want to throw this couch out and never lay eyes on it again; I've started a Goodwill box that about half of my clothes are currently in; the kitchen MUST must must must be clean at all times or I will have a flippin' meltdown I tell you. I'm hormonal - something I've never really experienced this heavily before (except perhaps directly post-partum. there are some stories there.) - and the only real option I have to alleviate the stress that is nesting is to make things clean. No Jess, put the primer down. You can't paint the walls. Stop hauling the sectional out section by section, we can't afford a new couch.

At my tiny tiny private high school, the whole school would gather for assembly every morning to do a daily dedication, followed my announcements and oftentimes a quick address from the headmaster. He used to say something, frequently enough that it would make me do a (mental) eye-roll, that resonates with me more now than it ever did ten years ago.

External order produces internal order.

At the time, I believe he was addressing the omnipresence of locker crap overflow into the halls and our slovenly desks that looked like they'd been ransacked. We were a small community; clutter made things claustrophobic. But now, as I look at the fruits of Sean's and my Saturday labors, I understand the second part of that phrase.

Walking into our apartment the last few weeks has been an immediate downer. It's been messy, cluttered, cramped, and nothing I want in terms of a home. My mood would turn nasty and I'd be a wench. There was no external order, (neatness, really), so I was not at peace with myself. After a quickish she-might-actually-be-manic-meltdown to Sean (who was not feeling well this weekend), I attacked the kitchen with a vengeance, then spent an hour and a half cleaning the bathroom, focusing my efforts on the shower/bathtub, which hadn't seen a real scrubbing in months.

Sean obviously sensed my crazy, and went out and rented a steam cleaner for our disgusting carpets.

All the earthly possession stacked not-precariously in the uncarpeted area

 All those white spots? That's where we sprayed carpet cleaner. THAT'S HOW MANY SPOTS THERE WERE. 

Helpful and Helpfuller or Vacuum Cords are Necklaces Too

Trendsetting with his cuffed jeans while Scaredy-Curious looks on

Dad's doing all the work - muahahah.

Cleaning is boring. I have a new playcubby. I'll be over here being unproductive.

Magic.

There's endless upon eternal upon neverending things that I want and need and have to do with this place, but a little cleanliness goes a long long way right now, and I'm feeling a little more restful. I followed up our cleanfest with confession (all by my lonesome), and BAM. Internal order. As part of my penance (am I allowed to tell you this?? oh well...) the priest told me to do something fun just for me. He advised me, in heavily accented English, that if I let stress build (ok, I must have sounded stressed out? Because I did not confess stress as a sin.) then I will be like the balloon getting bigger and bigger and bigger until I pop. I smiled behind the screen at this analogy, because over the months that's probably just about exactly what I'll look like, but he's right. 

After I left, I got a M&M McFlurry (judge me.) and went to my favorite park, parked the car, turned off the radio, and ate ice cream. I probably looked the profound lurk as I did not exit my vehicle, but I felt like it'd be more awkward for me to sit on a park bench by myself, eating ice cream, than to creep on people from behind my windshield, eating ice cream.

This day could not have been any more gorgeous so what the frick was I complaining about. Clean apartment + clean soul + McFlurry = External Order + Internal Order + Tastebuds Tingling with the Delight of Rebellion = Happy Pregnant Camper = Not-Wench Wife = Not-Scared-for-His-Life Husband = Blissful Family Unit.

It's just math, people.

The Laundering Business

The business of laundry in an apartment complex that doesn't have machines in each unit, but rather a community laundry room, can be a bit tricky. I'll just say it: it's a pain in the ass. It doesn't help that this mother-load (-loads, technically) is what's facing you every time you set out to accomplish this unwieldy chore:

I hid our unmentionables, you're welcome.

This beast is a week's worth and takes up four washers, so if I'm going to have a prayer of beating the after-5 laundry room rush, I have to carry it myself instead of waiting for the strong brute of a man to get home from work.... And we live on the second floor. I'm reminded weekly of my mortality when I'm carrying this approximately 750 pound behemoth as gingerly as possible down fifteen endless and very very concrete steps.

The real reason laundry is such a production is because I'm utterly and completely OCD about folding clothes. It was my job growing up to fold 8 children's + 2 parents' worth of laundry (this was a daily chore, as you can imagine the pile-up) and yes ok siblings, fine FINE fine, I elected myself president of folding because it entitled me to sit and watch TV for hours at a time while I completed the lengthy task, while you guys were relegated to the entertainmentless kitchen for dishwasher-emptying and stacking of the dirties. Mwa-aa-aa. But ALSO! I was the president because no one but I put the creases in the right spots in the towels; no one lined up the seams of the each pant leg so that they ran perfectly parallel to one another; no one made sure the socks were paired, folded in half at the heel, then stuffed one into the other.

No, who's "Monk"? I don't know what that is.

These days, however, certain rituals must be observed before I may be allowed to exorcise that bit of controlling crazy from my system each week.

1. Pile all the laundry on the floor. It will be as high as Jordan.

(didn't think to hide the boxers this time around so you might enjoy a peak at the festive candy-cane print nestled next to a cheery shamrock print. Am I the only wife to purchase her husband boxers themed for every holiday?)

2. Allow the big kid and the little kid to pounce upon and infect the freshly laundered with their unbathed bodies. 

Because it's fun.

3. Employ much head-scratching as the little kid engages in some kind of creative yet perplexing play in which she selects a piece of clothing, puts it upon her crown like a nun's habit, decides she doesn't like it there and flings about her neck like a scarf, and finally throws it in front of her face completely and dances an animated jig to Raffi's "Brush Your Teeth" until she runs smack into the bookshelf because she has voluntarily impeded her vision. Watch her become bored of that particular dishtowel, cast it aside, and select a fresh tunic victim.

Only after all of this pomp and circumstance am I permitted to do what I do best.

Let us focus not upon the countless dark stains in the carpet, the source of which Sean and I are completely at a loss to name (spots, thy names are....Jordan?), but instead upon all of this perfected goodness of obsessive compulsive. Neat piles of generically scented clothing framing a rectangle of space that I wall myself into when I set about to conquer the cliffs of absurdity. While watching Homeland, like days of yore. Well no, when I was home-schooled and conquering laundry I was probably watching My Man Godfrey or The Philadelphia Story or Laura or some 1930's-40's classic equivalent, but my point is laundry goes hand in hand with a good screen story.

That's how we get our jollies around here. An edge-of-your-seat foldfest. Pret-ty dangerous if you ask me.