Pregnant and Barefoot in the Kitchen.

This is not good my friends. My husband is going to be bound and determined to keep me knocked up for the next hundred million years. And that is NOT okay. Have I mentioned that I MISS MAH WINE! Not to be confused with my whine, which is in fine and working order. Obviously.

But, you see, the Nesting Period has begun.

In the past 24 hours I have sorted laundry, catalogued and compiled our next Goodwill donation, made the beds, vacuumed the entire top level of our house, put away 5 loads of clean laundry, hung wall decor in 2 bedrooms, showered and dressed myself - TWICE - and mopped the kitchen floor.

For the record? That right there might be the most housework I have done in the past year.

It's not that I am horridly dirty or messy. I generally keep the house neat and clutter-free, and if you visited our little abode you would likely be properly impressed with my classic taste and the carefully chosen items with which we have filled our home. An antique Victrola, a vintage wooden short-wave radio, beautiful wall art (courtesy, in most cases, of my Mother-in-law, who has a god-given talent for playing matchmaker with pictures and mat board and frames) and the results of my new found love of Old Virginia-style textiles.

It's just that - when it comes to the nitty-gritty of things like making beds and wiping down floorboards - I have always been, shall we say, a tad laissez-faire in my attitude. (Floorboards? People wash those? REALLY?? But my sister assures me that they do.)

But, suddenly, it's like someone set a pack of wild, OCD hyenas loose in my brain. They cackle madly as I scrub the last vestiges of toothpaste residue from the kids' sink. They howl with mad desire as I realize the seat-cushions on the dining chairs need a good steam cleaning. The rain yesterday? It kept me from steam-cleaning the carpet in our entryway, which won't dry if the humidity is above negative 4 million percent. I twitched with the intensity of the self-restraint required to keep my hands off my precious SteamVac.

As I warmed our dinner last night, it occurred to me that I was both pregnant and barefoot while in the kitchen. I suspect it occurred to my husband, as well, since he has suddenly decided that he is more in love with me than ever and "Hey! Let's take that government rebate money and get you a shiny new MacBook! You deserve it!"

So, yeah, I'm fairly certain he is formulating a plan to keep me preggers, like, forever. This whole nesting thing? Apparently it's not only a powerful aphrodisiac, it also gets you really awesome presents.

Just Call Me Dogberry.

"And Master, sir, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall assert, that I am an ass."

-Dogberry. (Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing)

Things I have been doing to make an ass of myself today:

* Wearing a fabulous sundress in honor of the epically fantastic weather. Of course, it would have been really adorable if only I had realized that my lavender bra was playing peek-a-boo sooner. It suddenly occurs to me that the really friendly bagger at the grocery store was probably not actually looking at my funky necklace while he made small-talk and bagged my pop tarts.

* Lecturing my child on the evils of telling fibs when he tried to convince me he has no school tomorrow. An eventual call to the school confirmed that yes, tomorrow is indeed a county teacher work day and he does, in fact, have the day off. Perhaps an extra bedtime story will soothe his moral outrage? Either way, I'm thinking I should drop a few bucks into the "college fund" jar (also known as "fundage for Jack's inevitable eventual therapy bills").

* Casually talking with my neighbor about her Southern Living party I promised to attend next weekend. Going from confused to mortified when she awkwardly tells me it was last weekend and realize I totally stood her up. Make a mental note to bring her coffee next week to make amends.

So, yeah, basically I am all-around brain dead right now and should not be allowed out in public. For my own sake.

And how is your Thursday?

On a lighter note (or perhaps a portent of our doom) we are taking the boys to a County Democratic Rally tomorrow. Should be good times. I'll try to get photos.

Food Karma

The universe is trying to tell me something. Something important.

Yesterday, McDonald's forgot to put the chicken mcnuggets in Toby's happy meal. The child was left with nothing but apples and french fries for lunch. Which is all he probably would have eaten anyway. But! Still! No McNuggets!

Also we have had no bread in the house for 3 days. Never mind that I have not been to the grocery store to purchase more bread since we ate the last of it in the form of tasty, tasty toast. We do love us some toast. Even Toby, who - other than the aforementioned apples and fries - usually sticks to his strict diet of cardboard and baby kittens. (Honestly, how did I give birth to a picky eater? I have been known to eat peanut butter straight from the jar. While also eating a dill pickle. And maybe some Doritos. While not pregnant...)

What were we talking about again?

Oh.
Right.
No bread.

So, yeah. No bread in the hizzouse.

This morning I realized that the half-gallon of milk I purchased (no, the day before we ran out of bread) is already empty. We have never before drunk milk this fast. I am baffled. Either we're on an inexplicable milk kick, or a small army of milk-drinking fridge gnomes are making rounds through my kitchen at night. Which would be pretty cool, now that I think of it. Fridge Gnomes! Coming soon to the YouTubes!

This afternoon, after preschool pick-up, my friend Sarah and I stopped at 7-11 to score the kids (and ourselves) some much-needed Slurpee relief in the face of the ridiculous heat and humidity of this afternoon. (Dude! Where's my SPRING?!)

In a fit of what can only be described as Pregnant Craving Rageaholic Syndrome, I grabbed at a package of Hostess Snowballs as though they were the last bottle of water at the last cantina at the edge of the Sahara desert. I might have knocked over a few children and one very old lady; I can't say for sure, it's all a bit of a blur and I'm pretty sure there was tunnel-vision.

I set the Snowballs briefly on the top of the car (remember that for later) as I settled the kids in with their Slurpees. Hot, sweaty, and flustered, I took a long, satisfying pull off of my sugar-free Peach Mango Fusion Crystal Light Slurpee (frackin' 7-11, with their broken Pepsi Slurpee machine) and pulled out of the parking lot to follow Sarah to her house.

Yeah, remember earlier when I put the snowballs on the car? Yeah, neither did I. If they didn't get squished under the crushing weight of the Minivan of Doom, I really hope the homeless guy who likes to pee around the side of the building enjoyed my marshmallow-covered chocolatey goodness cakes.

Finally, I started cooking our dinner tonight -- chicken in curry sour cream sauce -- and about half way into the process realized I forgot to start the rice. With 1o minutes till dinner, I have rice which requires at least another 20 minutes to cook. And we are hungry. And hungry men are on the way home from a rigorous evening of Tee Ball practice.

The universe is definitely trying to tell me something. I just can't decide if the message is that, what with the huge global food shortages, I should appreciate my good fortune and our bounty and be thankful that these are the worst of my food problems.

On the other hand, I think it more likely that it's a much less profound message: Pregnancy makes me really, REALLY stupid.

Travel, Sports, and AHH! The Cuteness.

First off, let's all give a big Internet High Five to my husband, who circumnavigated the globe several times on miserable business travel.. and then gave me the frequent flyer miles to get me on a plane to San Francisco for the oft mentioned BlogHer '08 that I'll be attending in July.

I'm not certain yet what will be required of me in return, but I suspect it will incorporate the fact that I'm quite bendy. (Thank you, pilates.) Or, at least as bendy as a pregnant woman can hope to be.

Secondly, please stop by and give big, wet smooches to the MochaMomma, who bestowed some seroius love on yours truly. She is my internet fairy godmother. Also? Her lips are mythical in their perfection and lusciousness. Actually, her whole person is mythical that way. Everyone should be so lucky as to know someone like her at least once in a lifetime. And you are free to envy that I expect to sit on her lap and let her whisper sweet things in my ear when I stalk meetup with her at BlogHer.

So you can see that my brainpan is quite overflowing with thoughts of my upcoming San Francisco adventures. It's hard to focus on anything else, even though there are oodles of things to get done between now and then. You know, like putting away the laundry that has been folded in baskets and patiently waiting to be stowed for.. oh.. I forget.

Also, my baby - MUH BAYBEE! - has kindergarten registration next week and OHMYGAWD I am too young and how could you let this happen?!! But, um, (*sniffle*cough*hiccup*) let's not talk about that because I remembered to put on mascara this morning and I don't need to have it running down my face just now.

Instead, let's talk about Tee Ball! (Smooth transition, no?) (no.)

Jack is an amazing kid. His newest habit, for example, is getting up in the morning and setting the table for breakfast while his parents are still happily snoring away. He is quick to follow directions and incredibly eager to please.

The funny thing about watching Jack learn to play Tee Ball is watching him attempt to unlearn everything we have been telling him for the last 4 and a half years.

"Slow down! Don't run!"
"Don't throw that at your brother!"
"No hitting! NO HITTING!"

And here I thought that was just good parenting. Now we get to watch him despair at ever understanding these inept humans responsible for his care and feeding as we yell out helpful instructions for success in the sport:

"Run! As fast as you can! RUN!"
"Throw the ball to Carson! THROW THE BALL!"
"Hit the ball with this stick as hard as you can!"

So, yeah, he's basically totally over thinking his parents are infallible and has moved on to the "these people are insane and OMG when do I get to move out on my own?" phase of his childhood. Because we're awesome like that.

As we attempt to navigate these complex and highly competitive waters, however, there are a few incredibly bright spots.

First off, the cuteness of kids in uniform.

Resistance to the cuteness is futile.

Next, Jack is learning the value of being a part of a Team. Taking turns, cheering each other on, and learning from each other. Of course, with four-year-olds, learning from each other usually means things like "see how he doesn't hit the kid next to him with the bat? You, also, should not hit the kid next to you with the bat." But, hey, small but important lessons.

Bonus points if you can tell how many of them were
actively picking their noses when I took the photo.

I really didn't expect the swell of pride that comes from watching your kid whack the ball off the tee and go running for first base like a pack of wild hyenas is nipping at his heels. Seeing him listen, work hard, and actually start to improve as he learns to play the game? It's like watching him learn to walk all over again. Parenting bonus, y'all.

He hit the ball! Off the little stationary thingy that is at
exactly the right height for him to hit it! My kid is a GENIUS!
Do not attempt to convince me otherwise.

Finally, there is the incredibly awesome factor of father-son bonding. Never having played any team sports myself, I am just beginning to realize the awesome power of this. Basically, now they have quiet, serious conversations about the vital importance of baseball and they both get to laugh at my expense when I attempt to talk the sports talk. Good times.

Two peas in a red-stitched pod.
You can almost HEAR them mocking
me with their thoughts.

No, really. Very Good Times, indeed.

What's In A Name.

I have decided that it is imperative that I name more things in my life.

My husband made a comment this morning, totally innocent, that indicated that perhaps my range of emotion has been somewhat... stunted... of late. I have been alternating between two primary moods: quite contented and royally pissed off.

So I'm trying to invite more of the pragmatically silly back into my world. I have this reputation for being.. um.. somewhat sassy, and I seem to have lost touch with my sass recently. And because all things silly inspire me to pucker up and bestow some tongue sass, I have decided to start with the naming of several inanimate objects. Mostly because this will assist me in swearing at them in a more personal way when they refuse to operate as advertised and/or expected.

First: the Minivan of Denial. Yes, the vehicle I begrudgingly accepted to replace my sleek little malibu and have thoroughly filled with an assortment of children, cracker crumbs, and sticky mystery stains. Oh, the "Rocker Mom!" window sticker helped to ease the sting, but at the end of the day it is still a minivan. Also, the battery seems to revolt at irregular intervals and leaves me stranded and dependent on the pity of strangers. And we all know how well I do with that whole "interacting with strangers" thing. (And if you don't already know, it involves lots of nervous shuffling, averting of eyes, and occasional bouts of uncontrollable sobbing.)
So won't you help me come up with an appropriate moniker for my silver torpedo of doom? I think it should be a male name, but I'm not sure if a van that carries a womb-full of children can really be male, so I'll leave this one up-in-the-air as far as gender for now. (Perhaps a good unisex name?)

Second: this Laptop. It was an exorbitantly expensive Christmas gift... back in 2003. Now? Well, now it is a 5-year-old computer that intermittently freezes up, reboots for no reason, and has, on at least one occasion, blind-sided me with the blue screen of death (and I swear to you it cackled maniacally when that happened. Really! It wasn't just in my head! The voices would have told me.) Her name should be the kind you'd associate with a vindictive ex-girlfriend.

Third: the Lawn Mower. The Lawn Mower has not given me any actual grief; in fact, it is one of the few pieces of equipment that works exactly as expected around here. It's one of those spiffy "one stroke" jobs, and it never fails to rev up on the first try. Also, it provides me with at least an hour of peace out in the sunshine whenever I fire that bad boy up. His name should be one I can holler affectionately as I approach from across the yard; the name of someone you'd want to share a little camaraderie with over beers.


Finally: the Dryer. The washer requires no name, as it so far works exactly as expected, which is to say not very well but about what you'd expect from an 8-year-old model. But the dryer.. well.. the deal with the dryer is that it works just fine. It dries clothes, and as long as you remember to set it on the "medium" heat setting it won't also melt them into a pile of smoldering ash. But the VENT HOSE. (Yes, I know I used all caps. Believe me, in this case it was warranted.) This dryer seems intent on detaching the vent hose at every opportunity. The rolls - yes, ROLLS - of duct tape I have gone through hooking that monstrosity back together - you would not believe. And yet, after a week or so of running satisfactory operation, suddenly an invisible opening will appear up there, where I have to stand on a ladder to even see it, and mysterious clouds of laundry lint will start to wend their way down from the ceiling.

Yes, the dryer is perhaps the most sinister appliance of all. Its name should be something particularly loathsome... like, perhaps, Darth Sidious. Or Beelzebub.

So my challenge to you, dear readers, is this: Either in the comments or via email (melkist at gmail dot com) please to be sending me your suggestions for these names. The winners will receive... uh.. my undying gratitude? And maybe a small token of some sort if I can think of something appropriate for the occasion. I can make no promises, as I am just now remembering that we need to buy more toilet paper before we're all reduced to using leaves from the lilac bush outside. The pregnant brain, it is not so good at the remembering, but I'll do my best.

Perhaps a signed photo of one of the other named creatures from our abode

Master Django McQueen de Mardi Gras...

Affectionately "Gizmo"

why for you make to balance heavy toys on face, woman?
I can haz livrsnap rewordz for these humiliashunz?

Once Upon A Time, In April...

Good evening, internets. What a rip-roaring whirlwind it has been. You see, I have been SO incredibly busy with my, uh, glamorous life here in the coutry that my brain was too full of important information (like "where is my baseball mitt?!" and "Honey, do I have any clean boxers?") to do things like.. uh.. locate the camera hanging on the hook where it belongs. Because who in our house actually puts things away where they go?! I ASK YOU! What is this world coming to?

BUT! At long last here am I, and here is my camera. (This is my camera, this is my laptop... one is for shooting, the other for public self-humiliation) (Bonus points if you know the reference.)

So let's take a little stroll down Last Two Weeks Lane, shall we? And because my brain is tired, and I not good make words, we'll make it a picture-book adventure.

THIS, apparently, is the Amish Village.

Tobin is, understandably, nonplussed.

Jack is, as always, too cool for school.
He is also already too cool to be seen with me publicly.
His adolescence should be loads of fun.

Hey, it's Primary season in PA. What ELSE would I be wearing?
(Thanks again, Sarah, for the awesome birthday gift!)

If you want your children to think you are a rock star,
let them sleep in an actual Train Car. It's not quite the Marriott,
but it was worth it to see their brains explode.

Bid Daddy is teh hotnezz.

The best pretzels you will ever eat in your life.
We got there just in time to grab 3 to share amongst
ourselves before they ran out of dough for the day.
Don't forget the lemonade.

Old! Rusty! Junk!
Big Daddy had to physically remove me from this shop.
The most awesomest rusty junk ever. I wanted one of everything.

What, not enough for you? Well, those were the hilights of our PA trip. I still want a giant, rusted sun sculpture to hang in our family room, but I'm limping along without it. (For now.)

I was going to combine this post and the coverage of Tee Ball Opening Ceremonies, but, well, you see... Battlestar Galactica is coming on soon, and I have a few things I have to get done first, and .. well, I know you understand, internets. I mean, you're cute and all... but you're no Katee Sackhoff, you know? Don't take it personally. We can still be friends. Let's totally talk tomorrow.

PANIC! At the Neighbor's

A funny thing happened last Friday afternoon. I was reading my emails, puttering along, and I got a birthday letter that got me a little worked up.

And then I had a panic attack.

I thought, for a moment, that maybe I was having a heart attack. My chest got tight, my heart was racing, I felt like I might vomit, and then I got so dizzy I had to lay down on the floor and wait for it to pass.

Weird, right?

But I figured, hey, these things happen. I'm so full of hormones that eTrade commercials (you know the ones - with the creepy talking baby) have been known to make me mist up, and I might have been self-medicating my stress with.. you know... copius amounts of Amish Fudge.

Then yesterday I took the boys to playgroup next door. And, standing in the middle of my neighbor's kitchen, I felt my face flush, choked mid-sentence, and looked down to be sure my heart wasn't leaping from my chest with all that pounding. I excused myself from the conversation with a pitiful croak and went to seek solace on the couch.

So! Panic attacks. Fun new pregnancy symptom! Apparently 50 percent or so of pregnant women experience them. This statistic makes sense to me for first time mothers, because that first pregnancy is so fraught with anxiety about the baby: Will it have 2 of each appropriate limb? Will that little heart keep beating? What about those oh-so-edible toes - will they be perfect as they should?

But this is my third kid, people. I'm over the scary first trimester, all is well with our little lemon-size baby, and I'm not worried about the pregnancy in the least. So why the panic attacks? Well, apparently caffeine and sugar can trigger them. Okay, so no more coffee for me and I'll cut back on that (*sniffle*) Amish Fudge. I'm giving this sucker a week. Any more of these unwelcome episodes, though, and I'm going to have to have a serious heart-to-heart chat with my fetal tenant. In fact, let's have a warm-up right now.

Hello, there, kid. Hey, listen - your dad and I are ecstatic that you're on your way and all, and your brothers have promised only to give you noogies after your skull plates have sufficiently fused so as not to give you, like, brain damage and stuff... But we're gonna have to talk about these panic attacks. You see, I'M not worried about you. I have my suspicions about your gender, which would explain why YOUR anxiety might be leaking over to me. But rest assured, kiddo, that all will be well. You just enjoy your next 5 months in there where it's all nice and warm and dark, and I promise that when you come out I'll let you rule the roost for a little while. All the milk you can drink, a fresh diaper every time you look like you MIGHT be thinking about transacting some business into one, and as many snuggles as you can demand.

For now, though, baby? Please to be stopping with the giving of the panic attacks. Really. One day, I might even buy you a pony! Wouldn't you like a pony?

Sincerely,
Yo Mama.

I Heart Intercourse.

Yep. Same shirt, it's still there.
And yes, I look older than last time. Because I AM.

So, I have more photos of our PA adventures. But I can't post them now, because I just realized we're already 15 minutes late for a playdate next door and I'm still in my jammies, and really... well, let's just say that it takes a certain kind of something to be a half hour late for a playgroup at your neighbor's house. And I have that something. In Spades.

California, Here I Come.

Well, y'all... I went and did it. I got myself registered for BlogHer '08!

After much hemming and hawing (I'm not sure exactly what that means, but in my case it involves eating a lot of fudge and chewing my fingernails) I finally decided to go ahead and do it. SO! I'm going to San Francisco in July. I'll arrive a day early so I can hopefully catch up with a few folks I haven't seen in a while and maybe I'll finally take that tour of Alcatraz. I hear it's pretty spiffy.

Who am I kidding? I'll be shopping and wandering my romantic, misty city by the bay in my full pregnant glory, probably mugging small children for their candy outside of Ghirardhelli Square. And I'll be Kid. Free. For 3 whole days. Won't you join me for (cooked) sushi and a (virgin) cocktail, internets?

So now I can begin to formulate my brilliant plan, wherein I ensconce myself in the midst of some of the beautiful, brilliant blogging women whom I worship admire. Or, I might just attend the sessions, take lots of notes, and end up feeling like I'm back in high school, reading Nicholas and Alexandra at my locker during lunch. Either way, there is much to be learned, there are sights to be seen, and there are cocktail parties to attend. Of course, I won't actually be able to enjoy the cocktails, but at least now I have an excuse to wear the completely non-sensible shoes in my collection in the company of the women who can enjoy a few appletinis, or whatever it is the kids are imbibing these days.

Next problem: Finding a roommate so I'm not forced to pawn one of the children to pay for accomodations.

Literary Me(me)

Spotted first at Redsy. I like this. I'ma do it.

Nearest Book: Anansi Boys (Neil Gaiman)

Page 123 & 5th Sentence, then Type Sentence 5-8

Here is the Excerpt:

There was a zebra-skin rug, and a bear pelt hanging on one wall, and there was the kind of advanced audio equipment that mostly consists of a black piece of polished plastic that you wave at. On one wall hung a flat television screen that was the width of the room that should have been there. And there was more...

"What have you done?" asked Fat Charlie. He did not go in.

There, now. And because it's late and I'm tired.. Hey, YOU! Yes, you who are reading this. Have you done this one already? No? Well then... consider yourself tagged, my friend.

More Than Words.

Once in a while I realize that hope is not enough. Hoping that people will change, and grow, and learn to accept you for who you are without attempting to revise history or judge things they don't understand... such hopes are ultimately futile, because we can't ever change other people. We can't even change how they see us, once they've chosen to view us through a particular lens.

The closest I can come for today is this: THIS is what one-day-before 29 looks like.


And this is what my kids look like.



See all the smiling? This is because they have a mother who loves them, and who accepts herself as she is, follows her own heart and her own conscience. I am happier and healthier in my life NOW than I have ever been before. It took a long time to get here, to begin to learn not to be burdened by trying to squeeze my square peg into a very narrow, round hole.

To love someone unconditionally means, really, to accept them. To say that you love someone and then try desperately to change them, or to tell them who they are (even if the description is only accurate in your own head) is NOT love. Control and Love are not synonymous. Loving someone does not mean attempting to make your own vision for their life a reality... it means doing your best to understand THEIR vision for their best life, and helping them achieve those goals. Even if they're not the goals you hoped for, and even if you don't understand why.

Tomorrow I will be 29. But I'll still be me, and maybe one day I will be able to aptly articulate exactly who that is.

Decisions, Decisions...

So we had actively decided to take a family vacation to the Outer Banks this year. I looked up a few likely suspects for a one-week rental house and we tossed around ideas for a few dates.

THEN, Big Daddy T's Mama decided that she is going to treat herself, for her very special birthday this year, to a one-month rental in August... and invited us to spend whatever portion of that month with her that we would like.

Holy. Freaking. Awesome.

THEN, Big Daddy T tells me that Sure, why not, why don't I go ahead and stop pining for the BlogHer conference this year and go ahead and GO already. I mean, it's in San Fran (Hello Old Stomping Grounds!), in the middle of the summer when kids are out of school and weather is beautiful, and it's before I'll be so pregnant that the notion of waddling around San Fran would feel less like a luxury and more equivalent to a waterboarding.

So I'm thinking about it. And I'm also thinking about maybe using his frequent-flyer miles to truck my happy behind out to Rome, Italy and visit with my brother and his lovely wife and their adorable children.

But I can hardly rationalize, even to my spoiled self, taking both trips alone this year. Especially, really, when you include the fact that I'll likely get to spend a few weeks basking in the salt-spray of the Outer Banks come August.

So it's decision time. And I have to figure out what I want to do more... Finally get my chance to accost Dooce and make a fool of myself with the laughing and the weeping on her tiny, tiny shoulder and maybe compare buddha bellies with the also-pregnant Amalah (and probably end up with a restraining order by the time I finish frightening these and the rest of my favorite blogging Mamas..) Except for the effervescent MochaMomma, who I'm sure totally won't take it the wrong way if I happen to suddenly lick her face or perhaps administer a firm smack to her posterior...

OR...

I could finally have a real excuse to get a passport and, at long last, set foot in Europe. Not just any part of Europe, but ROME, people! The architecture, the history, the art, the FOOD. I'd also mention the wine but, sadly, the fetus in my belly makes that impossible. But still... ROME!

Seriously, I should always be faced with such dilemmas. Like winning the lottery and having to choose Bulk Payout or Incremental. Still and all, though, it's going to be a difficult thing to make up my mind....

Welcome Home?

What, exactly, is the correct thing to say to one's husband when his airplane lands after 10 days away and the first words you hear over the phone are "I just puked my way from Frankfurt to Dulles"?

Yeah. So as happy as I am to have Big Daddy T back in the country with us, the weekend did not go exactly according to plan. First, he missed his initial flight out of the Czech Republic and had to take a later one to Frankfurt, pushing his arrival home from 3pm to 9pm. Which was fine, really, because the boys slept in the car most of the way to the airport as well as home again.

What was not so fine were the events of the next 48 hours. No, indeed.

But today he is back at work, the boys are back in their regular routine, and I am - at last - looking forward to a bit of down time as we head to Amish country for my birthday this weekend. I'll be 29 on Saturday.

Posting the rest of this week will likely be sporradic at best as I attempt to dig out from under the massive chaos around the house. I will, however, be uploading some new photos. So there's that to look forward to.

Try to contain your excitement, aye?