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In which Cupcake relinquishes control…and doesn’t like it.

April 20, 2013

It’s been, well, exactly 7 weeks since I’ve posted, mainly because we’ve spent every single weekend since driving back and forth to College Station and Brenham for childbirth classes and moving crap, respectively.

Can I just tell you: moving when you’re pregnant is INSANE. It’s not necessarily difficult, I mean, I’m not allowed to lift any boxes, so I don’t necessarily have a lot of physical exertion going on (though I did have to carry an unending stream of mason jars from our wedding that I refuse to get rid of because one day THEY WILL BE USEFUL). The really tough part is that along with the pointing and directing, there’s a lot of “well, I’m not lifting any boxes, so do I really have a right to tell anyone what to do?” It’s a confidence-shaker, at least for a control freak like me, to be basically helpless as a sea of your stuff flows by you in the hands of the people you love to be packed away any way they want.

Matt deserves a medal for handling the hysterics this has brought on. And I mean literal, honest, sobbing in the bathroom hysterics. The only antidote to complete emotional meltdown seems to be clear, specific communication.

Case in point: while packing up a round of things to go to Brenham last weekend, we established Saturday evening that we would take with us only what we could pack in boxes Saturday night. Anything still on shelves Sunday morning would stay put, to be gone through at a later date.

For me, this move is all about prioritizing, as we’re not moving directly into our own home, but rather into and on top of my parents’ ranch house (and all their furniture and personal belongings) while our little love nest is finished. So it’s really important to me that A. I know exactly what’s in each box of things, so that B. I can arrange boxes appropriately so that when C. the little Miss arrives we don’t have to worry about digging through multiple layers of boxes to get to the food processor.

I am also taking the time to clean and dust each item as I pack it away, as our housekeeping has dwindled to a bare “take the trash out when it’s stinky and periodically shuffle items around on the floor so Matt can vacuum under the dogs” lately.

In case you’re not picking up on it, I HAVE A SYSTEM. One that takes time, but will save us (me) a huge headache when trying to unpack on the other side. It also prevents my parents from seeing how slovenly we’ve become, as unpacking boxes of dirty items into their pristine house is kindof humiliating to me.

Well, Sunday morning, the system broke down. Hard. I was just getting out of the shower, when I heard Matthew in the kitchen, making noises that sounded very suspiciously like packing noises, near the food appliances on the shelving in our mock-pantry. I.e. An entire shelf of completely dusty, unwashed, onion-skin-laden appliances (our onions molt like birds in this apartment and leave feathery skins all over everything – do not ask me why, it is a mystery) being put DIRECTLY INTO BOXES to be taken to Brenham, where they would be unpacked onto dirty, unwashed shelves. WITHOUT MY EXPRESS APPROVAL.

At the very least, I refrained from yelling directly at him. Through the sea of hormones, I was at least able to recognize that Matt was doing a really good job: he had packed up the things we had decided to take, realized he had tons of extra room, and decided to up the ante. A wonderful, nice thing.

So I hid in the bathroom and cried for 20 minutes. Literally. He finally stumbled upon my crying mess, looking totally bewildered, and said “What’s wrong??”

“I just…wasn’t ready!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” [muffled sobbing into Matt’s shoulder]. I have no idea if he really understood what, precisely I wasn’t ready for, but he hugged me until I calmed down, and asked if there was anything he could do to help.

Sigh. There’s not, really, because the way I want to do things is so painstaking, it doesn’t make sense to do it now. And come May, I’ll have all the time in the world to go back and disinfect/clean/dust every item we’re moving in situ, in Brenham. But for now, every time he boxes something before I’ve had a chance to clean it, I cringe. And fight back the tears of losing control.

Good practice for having a messy child, I’m assuming.

And, speaking of the messy child, let me tell you a funny story about the apparently butternut squash-sized babe currently growing in my body. In the pregnancy books, and at the doctor, they recommend occasionally doing a kick-count, which consists of lying down on the couch or bed and timing how long it takes you to reach 10 kicks. The rule of thumb is, if you reach 10 kicks in 1 hour, your baby is A-okay. Anything less than 10 kicks in 2 hours, and you should probably call your doctor.

It took me approximately 1 minute to write that paragraph. Would you care to guess how many times the baby has kicked? Hint: higher than 10.

And we’re not just talking gentle little thumps and swishes, which there are aplenty. We’re talking full-on, belly swirling ballet, visible to the outside world as a series of shimmies and shakes taking place along my midsection. I have videotaped it a few times, but it’s too freaky to post publicly (if you’re interested, I can send you a private message. J).

I cannot describe to you how weird it feels to have parts of your body hijacked by another human being. I’m positive I’ll miss them once she’s here, but for now it just feels crazypants.  Hope you’re all enjoying the wishy-washy “can’t tell if it’s Spring or Winter” weather!

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