L-O-V-E means watching DUMB movies like this. I mean, Jeremy Piven would, I am sure, prefer to get mercury poisoning again than admit that he made this film. This is right up there with Glitter (sorry Mariah). So while I sit here trying to distract myself from this movie I post blog posts like this.

I must really love my husband.

Turns out. I do.

I once had a friend who was so in love with this girl that she was with she went to a StarWars convention dressed as an Ewok. I had another friend who took a month of French to say a couple of sentences to an exchange student. I mean, with Garrett, I didn’t convert to another religion or do anything else extreme- but I DO find myself having to watch mind-numbing movies and listening to way more Creed than I would otherwise listen to. But I love him.

So I sigh and stare at him with goo goo eyes as he laughs like a hyena at Ving Raines attempting to resuscitate an already VERY dead acting career.

What do you do for love?

Me: My contractions are still uneven. Every twenty or thirty mins. with intense back cramping. Dr. Crownover said I am dilating, I am at 1- almost two…

Sadie: OMG! I am SOOOO excited! How are you doing?

Me: My back is hurty! Janessa asked me if I wanted to take something to stop labor.

Sadie! WHAT!? Why would she ask you that!

Me: SO that my labor will stop and then start back on its own evenly.

Sadie: Well, I guess that makes sense, but what did you say?

Me: I told her yes.

Sadie: What!?

Me: Just kidding… I said I would wait it out to see if it is real labor for awhile.

Sadie: Oh God good! I thought I was going to have to come over there and punch you in your cervix!

Jasmine does not make this any easier on me, as she has the ability to make amazingly good coffee with cinnamon and just the right composition of coffee, milk, and sugar. Sure sure, I could ask her to bring me a cup every morning, and she would maybe do it. But something in me feels bad about saying “Hey. I know you are all 9 months pregnant and about to have a human come crashing out between your legs, but would you mind driving over to my house with a steaming cup of joe? Mm’Kay thanks.”

Through my pregnancy I have had some relief from the cruel juxtaposition of my dreams about coffee and what I actually make at home. In the beginning I was all “Blahhhajchuir! Death liquid! The urine of Satan!” and then in the middle I was all “Mmmm…I just really love some tea. I am not a frail enough human to need coffee” but now I am 31 weeks along and find myself indeed a frail human who has an incredibly vicious want of the drink. The want is bad enough that I have been willing to drink the coffee I make and just pretend it is as good as I have dreamed.

This was all good and fine except that something like 20 minutes after the desire for coffee kicked in, Norah broke my coffee pot. Its my own fault really, because I am the dummy that lets her play inside the cabinet where my coffee pot lives. That was a little over a week ago, and I have been surviving on coffee from the cafe downtown, Jasmine’s house, an amazing cup of vanilla nut coffee from Atlanta Bread Company, and yesterday, some wretched tar from Sonic.

This morning Norah and I woke at a leisurely 9:30am, and after taking a shower, the coffee craving hit me. But I really didn’t want to drive to the cafe, nor did I want to pester Jasmine. So in a moment of desperation, I rigged my coffee pot to work again. I measured out some haphazard amount of grounds and used my Pyrex measuring cup to measure out some haphazard amount of water. Then I put the Pyrex where the pot should go and used a spoon to depress the thingy at the spout where the coffee comes out. I was rewarded with a half-decent cup of coffee.

There was much rejoicing in the land of Sadie. And I don’t really know why I felt compelled to tell this story, except to point out the fact that in the face of adversity I don’t just roll over and give up. No no! I am industrious and unconventional! I also have an unhealthy love of coffee.

Have a good day, friends.

The other day I was nesting like a psycho womancleaning out a couple of drawers and I found our old calendar. Turns out that I wrote down that Garrett and I had sex (I wrote it down because I had previously been taking fertility meds) on June 30th. For all you conception gurus out there, it means that IF I conceived on or around that date, then Addison should be born on or around the 23rd of March! Hooray! At least some kind of direction and clarity, right?!

In the mean time, my body is telling me it is full term and I am getting anxious. In a week in a half Addison will be considered medically viable (no complications if she was born)… which is a really bad thing. It is a bad thing because I am notoriously BAD about delaying gratification, especially when I have planned and scheduled and worked so hard for it. Last year I picked tomatoes too early (knowingly) because I decided that I waited long enough for them to do their damn job! Silly aren’t I! I am very patient with children (unless they live inside me) and family and friends (for the most part)… but any projects I have initiated better get themselves DONE by golly or there will be some issues.

So my little in-utero project, Addison, is quickly wearing out her welcome. Janessa, my midwife, is doing the smart thing, reminding me: “Jasmine… all things come in season- she won’t stay in their forever, but let her grow as long as she needs to.” Excuse me Janessa! Do you KNOW who you are talking to…. I want her! I want her NOW!  My OB knows this about me. He told me I could be induced when I wanted. I think this is a dangerous idea and I turned it down, but its appeal grows everyday that my hip pops out of place and I almost pee on myself when I sneeze.

Help me friends. Remind me it is okay to wait, that I will make it, and that all things come in season (even though I will most likely ignore you and drink and ungodly amount of Castor oil).

The other day, at our routine checkup, the amazing Dr. Crownover asked me how I was feeling. A blush came over my face and I started to explain:

Jasmine: Dr. Crownover, before you see my belly I have a confession to make…

*Dr. Crownover gave a very medical, yet attentive look…*

Jasmine: So…. as my belly has gotten bigger I have become increasingly insecure about how hairy my belly is. In a moment of weakness I decided I would wax my belly.

*Dr. Crownover’s attentive look melts away and he doubles over in laughter*

Jasmine: Seriously! Don’t laugh. I got into the first strip, and I thought, “Who the hell’s idea was this! But then I was already in over my head and I had to finish it… now it is growing back, and I am all itchy. GAW! What is wrong with me!!!!”

*Garrett interjects*

Garrett: I told her not to be insecure about it. I told her that her body was normal.

Jasmine: Shut up Garrett! You don’t get an opinion! You shaved your face into a trucker “stash” …. people who look like that don’t get opinions on what is normal.

*Side note: Days before Garrett shaved his beard into a handlebar mustache and decided that he loved the trucker look. I laughed at him every time I looked at him. THEN he thought it was an awesome idea to wear it to my appointment. Because, ya know, that look is cool? What! No! It isn’t cool. All he needed was a cut- off flannel shirt and an “I love mom” tattoo… geez!

Dr. Crownover: OH! I didn’t even notice your mustache Garrett, I like it… I like it *Up until this point I believed my OB was a great honest man, now I believe he is a filthy filthy liar!*

My belly itches like an S.O.B and the little red bumps from my shirt rubbing the hair that is growing in is not very pretty… it is actually worse than being hairy. Because now I am hairy/bumpy/red. A dead sexy combination.

*Fast forward to today*

After a vigorous step aerobic workout Sadie and I decided to go to lunch. We talk about a plethora of things. Sadie is smart. She is a real brain. But today, she looked at me with all seriousness, she, “When we get closer to having the babies we should go get our nails done, and then make someone wax our lady parts so we will look all nice for the delivery…”

I evaded the remark. I was having flashbacks of a couple of weeks earlier where I got that dumbass bright idea to wax my belly. I don’t think Sadie and I can be friends if she starts suggesting things like this. Next she will ask me about anal bleaching….

Here is a game we can play. You won’t win a prize, a giveaway, or shenanigans like that. You’ll only have the beautiful gift of feeling, for a brief moment, what it is like in my life.

Here are your clues:

1. I couldn’t find Isaiah

2. I found him in the towel closet

3. He piled up blankets

4. He pulled down his pants

5. He took off his diaper

6. When I asked him what he was doing he closed the door on my face and declared, “…..”

Tell me. What do YOU think he declared?

Give up? He screamed, “Close door mom! POTTY!!!”

Uh yes son, what was I thinking… I potty in the towel closet all the time! Someone want to come clean up my towel closet?

My love of carpet cleaning comes in line right before Jesus. If Jesus came down in his glowing fleece diaper and was all, “Hey Jazzy J (cause Jesus is my homeboy) wanna come chill with me, thought I’d show you around heaven all Enoch-style. Wanna hang?” I’d be all, “Well Jesus, sounds awesome but in your all knowing-ness you KNOW it is carpet cleaning day… So NO.” Because I love carpet cleaning THAT much that I would totally turn down Jesus in his glowing fleece diaper. *This is baby Jesus I am referring to, of course. Calm down all you weirdos picturing adult Jesus in a glowing fleece diaper.*

Isaiah’s God-Mother, Tricia, is as bad (if not more) as me about cleaning the carpets. She reserves days off. Like seriously she will be all,”can’t come into work today- gotta clean the carpets.” I REALLY hope she defines that she is ACTUALLY shampooing her carpets, lest her employees believe she has some sort of personal grooming issue that takes a whole day off. I digress.  Garrett and I moved into this awesome house and purchased this awesome house but this awesome house had not so awesome white carpets that don’t look so white.

*Inhale*

So I clean these carpets bi-weekly. I am happy I don’t have a secret camera following my life, and you are too, because you’d think I was ill. The pomp and circumstance that includes the opening ritual of “Carpet Cleaning Day” is something to behold. My poor son? Well, He is just a casualty to the process. I put up a baby gate in our long hall and throw pillows and toys inside. I throw gingerly place Isaiah in the “baby run” and begin my shampooing ritual.  The smell of the shampoo solution and the look of the first strip of gleaming carpet is kind of orgasmic.

Today? Today, folks, is CARPET CLEANING DAY.

YES I DID CLEAN THEM LAST WEEK. Don’t preach at me. It is not an addiction! I can stop whenever I WANT! My super pregnancy nose has lanced out some dog pee (we have a new puppy) behind the couch, so clean I must. What? What is that you ask? Why not SPOT treat the pee stain? Well, because I believe in equality for all carpets. How would the rest of the carpet feel if I didn’t shampoo all of it? Are you freaked out yet? YOU SHOULD BE… because that is how passionate I am about my shampooer. Almost as passionate as I am about cleaning out the fridge- Ask Sadie and Tricia and Connie about that. I kind of go rogue  and determine to clean out other people’s fridge. Never mind if I organize their fridges to fit me….

 Also: Jesus, if you are reading this (which OBVIOUSLY you are- because this blog is THAT hardcore, and you LOVE me that much) I could seriously use a new carpet cleaner. I could *settle* for one of those industrial riding ones. IT doesn’t matter that my front room is less that 700 sq. feet… I will make it work. I can sacrifice- following your example, of course, Jesus.

So right after I post this I am going to turn on Marvin Gaye’s “Lets Get It on”, put up the baby gate, fire up the Bissell, and have a special moment: Just me and my carpet.

Good day Ladies!