So the December vacation didn't quite go as planned. And by "as planned" I mean nothing we planned got done. Not a damn thing. Here's unsurprising fact #302 about The Hub and I: we over-plan. We have "tendencies." He's always trying to schedule work into every spare second, and I put more into my daily calendar than is humanly possible to complete. Unsurprisingly, changes to our schedule can send us around the bend badly and quickly.
Which brings me to the Christmas/New Year's week-and-a-half vacation, in which we planned to stock up on baby equipment, arrange our furniture, fix up the house, and go through all our boxes from the move. The simple phrase "boxes from the move" doesn't do justice to width and breadth of our possessions. We have a) stuff from the Oakland apartment we've been living in for the last 11 months, b) things we brought with us from Upstate NY in Dec 2009, and c) property we put in storage in 2007 when we first moved to Upstate NY from Oakland. We literally had a storage unit for every move. We were blithely confident we could meet our deadline and the New Year would find us basking in the glory of our newly put-together home. Cue the Chariots of Fire theme song and slow-mo action montage.
Ah, the naiveté of being physically capable. We moved into our shiny new rental house November 2010 – I was pregnant but still in glorious second trimester able-bodiedness. The Hub was busting ass finishing projects and I was going gangbusters blazing through the mountain of boxes crammed into the nursery and basement. Then third trimester descended like the plague. Able-bodiedness flew out the window. No problem, new December plan. I'll organize and memorized the contents of 50+ boxes and Husband-cat will put in a 60-80 hours hard labor moving things around. Then *BAM* a harmless game of racquetball with Eeyore turns tragic when The Hub lunges for a low ball and, I kid you not, knees himself in the ribs badly enough to do damage. Think about that for a second. My husband is so naturally, crazily flexible he can actually injure himself in the chest with HIS OWN KNEE.
Doctor's appointments, x-rays, and cursing follows. Turns out he hasn't fractured anything but he has soft tissue damage. This means he can only lift up to 10 pounds and then has to take a 15 minute break to recover. You have no idea how many things weigh over 10 pounds until they cause you pain. Or in Husband-cat's case, when you insist on lifting things because you will not be stopped. He finally broke down one day when he went to torment the cat (she hates to be picked up) and rediscovered that She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed is no lightweight, wussy anorexic cat.
Him: Time to bother the cat!
Her: Maow (I hate you. Now give me lap.)
Him: Ha! Ha! I have you now! (lunge)
Me: Noooooooo! Don't pick her up, she's too bi--
Him: Ow! Ow! Ow! My rib!
Her: Mew mew! (That's what you get, stupid human! Where's my lap?)
Yeah, She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed tips the scales at 13 pounds. And though The Hub learned his lesson and stopped trying to pick everything up, he also contracted a hideous illness that kept us in on New Year's. And then he 'discovered' a cavity so bad that it sent him through weeks of agony and a root canal. Me? Oh, all I did was suddenly develop hip joint pain that made standing and walking painful, constant lower back pain, and renewed lower abdominal ligament pain. I've spent a month and a half living at the chiropractor and massage therapist. Also, setting my money on fire to keep my hands warm (which are suddenly arthritic just to make everything better).
But ish, you say, how did the nursery get so clear? We saw from your photos that your house is far better than this sorry sack of sad story would indicate. To that I say: Tune in Friday to meet the Faux Husbands! My cracker-jack team of able-bodieds who have made it possible for Baby Skullhead to have a home, not just a box for a bassinet!