Our dining-room-to-be is being sheetrocked today, which is a pretty exciting step. Soon it will be time to decide on the vinyl (more on this later: all my favorites were not just the “good,” not just the “better,” and not even the “best” categories, but the “luxury” category. Um, no.), and on paint colors (likely to be cream, because that’s almost always what I end up indecisively choosing).

The sheetrocking guy is nice, too: he has the radio on and I can tell he’s restraining himself from singing along too loudly so he won’t disturb us, but he keeps whistling and singing in spite of himself, including a falsetto segment on a Faith Hill song.

I think of that kind of thing as a sign of an inherently happy person. Paul is the same kind of whistler/singer, although of course he belts it out because this is his own house. If I were ever in a position to remarry, I’d look for that singing/whistling thing again. Paul may have his tempers like anyone else, and he might drive me crazy sometimes like any husband would, but he’s about 1% tempers/crazy-making and about 99% singing along with the radio and doing falsetto on the girl songs, and that makes for a pretty happy life.

And now the sheetrocking guy can’t hold back anymore, because Tainted Love is on. Ha! He’s whistling the little boww-boww noises, then going loud for a few moments on the lyrics before remembering where he is and damping the sound.

But here is the point of this post: fretting! Should I be offering the sheetrocking guy some snacks or drinks or something? He’s been working out there for 6 solid hours, and as far as I can tell he hasn’t taken a break. I have brownies in the oven, and could offer him some when they’re done, with his choice of milk or ice water or Heineken.

But I feel so shy about it! What if he’s diabetic? What if he wants milk but only if it’s 2%? What if he thinks I’m hitting on him or something? *wrings hands*

What do you do, when you have people working on your home? Do you offer snacks/drinks?

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Pay-it-forward updates:

Move Along – There’s Nothing to See Here is showing the giftie she got.

The True Adventures of Axel and Outlaw is showing the giftie she got, and starting a new contest.

3Giraffes is showing the giftie she got.

Pickles & Dimes is showing the giftie she got, and starting a new contest.

This was mostly a sucky weekend. We were going to have a yard sale Saturday, but there were supposed to be thunderstorms all day long so we canceled it, and then it didn’t rain.

The stuff really had to be out of the way for the sheetrock crew coming this week, so we had a yard sale on Sunday instead, since it wasn’t supposed to rain. But it DID rain: just little bursts of it now and then, just enough to make things damp and unappealing. We made seven dollars in three hours, and at that point we just put out a big “free” sign and gave up on the whole thing. That was the utter suck—although we DID still get a ton of stuff out of our house, which was good.

One of the things we cleared out, though, was the exersaucer, and that made me sad: we bought that when Rob was a little baby, so it’s been in many a baby picture.

Elizabeth

Edward

Henry

I said to Paul, “But if we have another baby, we’ll just have to buy a new exersaucer.” And he said, “I’m willing to take that chance,” in a tone that communicated he felt it was a very low risk indeed. So THAT was suck.

Plus, this morning I was startled awake early by a loud cheeping alarm sound in the kitchen, which I couldn’t locate. Until I realized it was coming from a bird, which one of our cats had in his mouth. I’ve never had to handle that situation before. I didn’t know what to do. I’m pretty sure I picked the wrong way, but I’m pretty sure ALL the ways were wrong ways, because all of them involved the bird dying. I felt sorry that we owned and petted a cat.

What is your deal? There was PLENTY of Iams in your dish.

And then all weekend the two older boys were SO GIDDY, and Edward has started this screaming thing where he screams whenever he’s even slightly unhappy, frustrated, or thwarted, or if any of his siblings argue with him. And Henry is obviously and tactlessly preferring Paul, which on one hand I love (“Oh, he wants YOU! Guess I’ll have to hand him over and go read some blogs!”), but on the other hand I don’t.

And then Paul accidentally spilled my fruit fly trap (i.e., rotten fruit and apple cider vinegar—thanks to Twitter peeps who gave me the recipe when I shrieked about having fruit flies) down in the crack between the counter and the fridge.

But then I got the news that I’m going to be an aunt. I mean, clearly the real news here is that my sister-in-law Anna is going to be a mother and my brother Erik is going to be a father. But still! Aunthood for me!

I was very glad to hear that I am not the only one who suffers from Houseguest Awkwardness, where I WANT to help but feel too awkward to offer, or where I DO offer but then mess up what I’m given to do.

You know what I think the problem is, is that it’s REALLY HARD to help at someone else’s house, but it doesn’t SEEM hard. Like, they say, “Oh, um, sure! Why don’t you set the table?” That’s easy! Even the children can handle THAT. But a guest doesn’t know where the dishes are kept, or which set of dishes to use, or whether this is a “napkins under the forks” family or a “napkins in a holder on the table” family, or whether to put out the bread plates.

Or the hostess might say, “Oh, okay, you could get drinks?” But what are the drink choices I’m supposed to offer? And is this a “grab ice cubes with bare hands” family or a “use the cup to scoop up ice” family? Is it a “two ice cubes per glass” family or a “ice cubes up to the brim” family or a “dad hates ice and no one thinks to mention it because it’s automatic by now” family?

Or one time, the hostess asked me to tear the lettuce for a salad. And I had always, always, CUT the lettuce. So I didn’t even know what she was talking about! And the lettuce was right from her garden, and it was an unfamiliar variety to me—I didn’t even know which parts were edible and which parts should be trimmed. Should the thicker, whiter part up the middle of each leaf be included, or removed? And I tore the pieces way too large, so she had to go back and surreptitiously re-tear. Also, she assumed I knew it needed to be washed first.

Or, my mother-in-law asked me to make a pie. MAKE A PIE. I don’t, uh. I mean! PIE? And to her it’s easy, because she’s made that before, but to me it’s brand new! So I look like an idiot because it’s a frozen crust and a can of filling WHAT IS THE BIG DEAL? But I’ve never done it before, so of course I bumble around and look like the stupid useless daughter-in-law who can’t even handle a convenience pie.

I think the ONLY way for a guest to help is something like, “Oh, great, could you stand here at the stove for me and stir this sauce? It just has to be stirred constantly.” The thoughtful hostess could perhaps plan in advance to have something non-essential (water with food coloring and parsley in it, for example) simmering on the stove, to ask the guest to stir.

Some nights when I can’t sleep, it’s because of the Slideshow of Terrible Ways to Die. Other nights, it’s Horrifying Screenplays of Fires/Intruders. Tonight, it’s the Parade of Awkwardness.

I knew I was in serious trouble when my brain wanted to remind me of a houseguest experience where I was basically a fish flopping around on the tiles. I felt incompetent and bumbling next to my smooth and gracious hostess, and so didn’t offer to help when I should have—and when I did offer, I didn’t know what I was doing and messed things up. I misunderstood a question, and so seemed to be demanding to be served a drink. I’d gained weight recently and all my clothes were too tight for me, so I wouldn’t take off my cardigan even though it was in the high seventies. I tried to act all free-spirited and confident, and in doing so broke their pretty rope swing. She offered me a choice of an item from her collection, and I was so nervous I’d accidentally choose her favorite, I chose nothing—as if I were rejecting the gift.

This was more than ten years ago, but I have every moment carefully preserved so I can examine it in perfect detail. I do museum-quality work.

I SHOULD be sleeping beautifully, I worked so hard today on the playroom today. So many toys have so many pieces, and the pieces get everywhere so it was like an Easter egg hunt. I rooted around under bureaus, beds, chairs, the couch, the DVD shelves, the crib—and I found almost all the pieces to everything. I’m still missing a few puzzle pieces, but I need to deep-breathe and let it go or else I’m going to start ripping open couch cushions saying, “It has! to be here! somewhere!”

And I could almost cry, the way things were already getting messy again within an hour. One reason I don’t try to be a better housekeeper is that being a better housekeeper makes me a worse person: I’m on edge all the time, angry at my family for messing things up, finding someone to blame for whatever’s not perfect, finding fault with our whole house and everything in it, seeing every place where the hardwood is unevenly shiny. When I let things get messier, I calm down; when I make things tidier, I start snapping at people and not letting the kids play with their toys because I’m NOT looking for all those pieces AGAIN.

But of course, below a certain point, which is where we finally were, the kids can’t play with their toys because nothing has its pieces anywhere near it anymore. It’s a fine line, and right now I’m on BOTH wrong sides of it: parts of the house are too clean and organized, and parts of the house are too messy.

I’m trying not to let my “There’s too much to do, so I won’t do anything” impulse take over. I’m trying to keep chipping away at it, believing that each Skittle found under the recliner and thrown in the trash makes a tiny but cumulative difference in the overall household cleanliness. It’s like putting away a basket of tiny white laundry: it seems like you take out a hundred pairs of socks and there are still more socks, but eventually if you keep at it, the basket really does get empty.

Well, and then it starts filling up again, moments later.

You wanted to discuss my uterus, right? Oh good, me too!

I finally worked up the nerve to talk with my OB about the risks of having another baby: I’d be over 35, and I’ve had four c-sections. I’ve been wanting to ask about it, but I was worried he’d do what a lot of people do when I mention wanting a sixth baby, which is to suggest I have a psychological problem. I think this is funny when it’s kidding (one of the best moments of my pregnancy with Henry was hearing a librarian joyfully shout “ARE YOU CRAZY??” in a quiet library), but some people are serious.

This’ll vary from family tree to family tree, but in my parents’ generation, two kids is typical. In my grandparents’ generation, three or four kids is typical. In my great-grandparents’ generation, five or six kids is typical. A set of my great-great grandparents had nine kids, including twins twice. And a set of my great-great-great grandparents had eleven children like it weren’t no thing. On Baby #6, my female ancestors were just getting warmed up.

My OB earned points by acting as if it could be just as psychologically normal to have six kids today as it was 100 years ago. He opened my file and looked at the surgical reports and medical history. He said he didn’t see anything in my file that would argue against trying for another baby if I wanted one.

I tucked that information under my ribs. I keep peeking at it.

I am having SO MUCH FUN with a site Paul found for me called Postcrossing. I collect postcards, but I’d like this site anyway: you send postcards to random people, and different random people send postcards to you. Hm. That does not sound like so much fun when I type it out, but I LOVE this thing and think you should try it. Even PAUL is trying it now, after seeing how much fun I was having.

If you want to try it, I’m giving away a “starter kit” over at Milk & Cookies. And when I say “starter kit,” I mean I’m taking five blank postcards from my stash, adding five 94-cent international-postcard-rate stamps, and calling it a kit.

Sleeping is a KER-RAZY thing to do. It doesn’t seem that way when I’m having an easy time sleeping: I do my whole day, and then I climb into my nice soft bed and go to sleep until morning. Perfectly natural! Any children’s book can explain to you how it works!

But when I’m NOT sleeping, and I’m the only one awake in a house of sleeping people and animals, it seems like something out of a science fiction novel. Something about androids, maybe. They need to power down for 8 hours to recharge. The lights in their eyes go dark, and their limbs go slack. They need to be properly stored or they’ll collapse to the floor and be damaged.

That IS what it’s like. At night, human beings must find a safe place to lie down, because our bodies are going to lose consciousness. There we all are in our dark houses, unconscious, while hour after hour goes by unnoticed and unfilled. Picture those houses, stretched out across the miles, all quiet and still. CREEPY.

When I write my thesis on this (tentative title: “Sleep: That Sh*t Ain’t Right”), I plan to study in depth why there isn’t more looting. It seems like we’re easy targets, lying there with our slack limbs and lightless eyes.

I’m on watch, though. You go ahead and sleep.

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Pay-it-forward updates:

My Life is showing the giftie she got.

Sticky Feathers has a new contest up.

Scenic Overlook has TWO contests up.

I really do like you guys an awful lot. I keep meaning to say so. Often when I write a post, I don’t get back to the computer for hours and hours, and when I do, I go through the comments one by one, and I’m laughing and delighted and clenching my teeth at your cuteness and funniness. I just want to SQUEEZE you. And I think, “I should tell them so!”—but then it’s the next day before I write my next post, and by then all I’m doing is trying to get One! More! Sentence! written before I have to read Skippyjon Jones AGAIN or clean up spilled cereal AGAIN or take someone to the potty AGAIN or clean up an accident AGAIN, so I’m all head-down-and-to-the-task, and I don’t mention it. But I really do like you a lot, and I think of you often while I’m reading Skippyjon and vacuuming cereal and so forth.

Here are just a few, a sparse few, of the things you’ve written that have given me that rush of love feeling:

The New Girl. OMG, could I agree with her more about the acceptance of good news and the delivery of bad news? NO I COULD NOT.

Flack & Proud has a whole sidebar section of Unsolicited Advice for Women, and this one is probably my favorite.

Semi-Desperate Housewife asks an interesting question about how your parents raised you, and also I loved what she said about “It’s just my thing”.

Lippy on Life is discussing a dilemma I know ALL TOO WELL: how to decide whether or not to have another baby (she’s accepting votes!).

Not that You Asked… is so funny about how mean she is when she’s pregnant. I read, like, half of it out loud to Paul, but for some reason he was looking at me pointedly instead of gasping with laughter the way I was.

This post at Through the Looking Glass made me crack up again and again and again. Every time I hit a new “HUGE GAP IN CONSCIOUSNESS” I was off again (and again and again).

Princess Nebraska BLEW MY MIND with this post about what she’s not good at. This is the kind of post everyone reads and immediately wants to copy.

Eleanor Q. has written some helpful hints for a successful naptime. My favorite part was “The legs, preparing for their fall,” with the cute photo of baby legs, but I also laughed pretty hard about the way most people suck their thumbs.

Under Construction taught me to make salt caramels, and how I lived life before salt caramels I don’t know.

Miz S’s post about health fads would be worth it for the title alone, even if the rest of the post weren’t also awesome.

Yesterday I threw out six trash bags of trash from our house. SIX trash bags. And that’s just the TRASH: not stuff “good enough to give away,” but containers of dried-out Play-Doh, scattered beads, a stack of Gymboree gift boxes I’m never going to use, cheap trinket-type toys, paper airplanes, and pieces of broken toys.

This is the kind of task that is equal parts satisfying and discouraging. The satisfaction is obvious: six bags of trash removed is a clear improvement. But it’s also so discouraging: how did things get this bad? and how can there still be so much left to do?

The clutter book I’m reading is equal parts annoying and useful. I think all self-help books are annoying, and this one keeps cheesing me off with its tone. But here are the useful things I’m already putting into practice:

1) You can only have as much stuff as you have room for.

2) If it’s so important, why is it in a never-opened box in the basement?

3) Stop bringing more stuff IN.

4) If you’re not using it, give it to someone who can, or else get rid of it.

5) What does this item represent?

That last one is for things like, why am I saving a big pile of still-in-their-packages child-proofing devices, when it’s clear that if we haven’t used them by Baby #5 we’re not GOING to use them? And the answer is that when I own these items, it makes me feel like I own Safety. It also applies to things like books, where people often feel that they’ve purchased Information. And it applies to heirlooms and keepsakes that are in boxes in the basement, where people often feel like they’re storing Memories they’d otherwise lose.

I find this concept exceedingly cheezy—and yet useful and applicable, which explains why I’m a little crabby. It turns out I am saving a number of things in case of Apocalyptic Situations and/or Economic Depressions. I feel like if I have piles of fabric and twenty-five pounds of dried beans, then I will be all set in case of zombies, nuclear disaster, and/or economic ruin.

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Pay-it-forward updates:

Cookiemonks has her new contest up—it’s Etsy-themed, with a choice of prizes.