Just another in-line ad unit that has nothing to do with the post below! Mo' dollahs, fewer problems! Carry on!

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And speaking of fewer problems, my dear friend Sara is helping me update my website this week, which means that in a matter of days I will have a shiny new platform and a fresh new interim design and also *drumroll* WORKING COMMENTS. Oh, I've missed you, friends, and also...I need your advice. Preschool looms and (surprise) I don't know what I'm doing here.

In the meantime, I'm working my arse off all over the place and am defying both physics and logic by managing to simultaneously (a) lean into the next six weeks(!) before I go on maternity leave from my day job (come soon! come soon!) and (b) dig in my heels to better pull against the tug of time because there's no way in hell I can finish everything I need to finish in so little time before I find myself in charge of another entire person. I mean, the baby still has nowhere to SLEEP. (I don't mean we haven't assembled the crib yet, I mean we still don't know where we're going to put a crib...or a Pack n' Play or a laundry basket or an apple crate stuffed with newspaper or, if I'm feeling lifestylish, pages from the latest Land of Nod catalog.)

We're not exactly living the dream, but we're sure having an adventure.

Simon and I tend to be pretty casual about the minor holidays (basically everything besides Christmas, for which I usually manage to get sufficiently and acceptably worked up that most of the people who deserve gifts get them in a somewhat timely manner), but for occasions like Valentine's Day or anniversaries (ahem) and even birthdays, we're kind of hit and miss and for the most part okay with that. I mean, SO HELP HIM GOD if I don't get at least a handmade card from my child on Mother's Day, but otherwise, eh, I like presents as much as the next person, but you win some, you lose some, and it's best not to get too worked up about the whole thing because it doesn't actually matter if there's love at home every day of the year, blah-di-blah, Kumbaya, etc.

Instead of sleeping in yesterday, I lay awake in bed listening to the sound of Simon directing the early-morning card crafting ("What color do you think she would like?" "MOM DOESN'T HAVE A FAVORITE COLOR SHE LIKES ALL THE COLORS LET ME DO IT MYSAAAAALF") and was obviously unable to go to back to sleep once I had (a) seen the masterpiece that was the self-portrait by my son, who only ever draws in scribbles and (b) smelled sausage, egg, and cheese muffins being prepared in my honor. There was supposed to be bacon too (sausage AND bacon! what artery-clogging decadence is this?) but we had accidentally eaten it all for dinner the night before, having newly dubbed the delicacy "Wilbur strips" and then succumbed to our glassy-eyed hunger for Some Pig.

We didn't really have plans for the day beyond Simon disappearing for a few hours to sit for a photo shoot for his new band, so the day was pretty slow and low-key. My one demand was that I be allowed to shower (no one objected--let us not wonder why), and my one request was that we go out to eat somewhere I could consume a sizeable quantity of vegetables (it had been a bad week for bread and pasta and cheese in our house), and three hours later--after strolling a street fair we happened upon by accident--I kinda sorta got my wish in the form of the two slices of tomatoes atop my tremendous mushroom cheeseburger of carby deliciousness, that is, if you don't bother with the minor detail of of tomatoes being fruits. The important thing is that I ate and the wait staff was handing out carnations to all the mothers on the premises, and I was calm and peaceful and happy out and about with my two boys and no looming deadlines and it was heavenly to just BE.

Official Mother's Day portrait, 2012, waiting in the car while Dad gets catfood at Safeway.

I totally get it when women choose spend Mother's Day on a solo shopping trip or an afternoon at the spa, but I'm pleased (for myself, with no judgment of anyone else) that I am, at least for now, the kind of mother who prefers to spend this annual Celebration of Motherhood actually mothering. Well...spending time with her kid, at least; I did totally cop out on some motherly responsibilities because it was My Special Day and, no, I don't want to come see your giant poop before you bid it farewell down the plumbing river, perhaps another day, dear one. I've said before that I'm really good at doing what I want to do--that there are no worries here that my personhood will get lost in my motherhood--and although that brand of self-care is what all the magazines tell us we should strive for, it's kind of a double-edged sword to have the message be so prevalent that whenever I hear it it's hard to not think, Hey, so, I guess I'm supposed to have a harder time putting myself first every so often? Weird!

Photos from last month's trip to the Bay Area Discovery Museum, which is AWESOME.

All of which is to say that this year I spent a good portion of Mother's Day sitting on the floor playing with Wombat and Maisy (it's not my favorite), and last year we went to the zoo (I don't really like the zoo all that much), and although on an ordinary Sunday I might have stolen a few hours to take care of Practical, Non-Wombat Things (a.k.a. nestiiiiiiiing), I'm glad that at least on this point, on this day, on this year (and last) I felt like a "natural" mother (whatever that means), because lord knows that every other day on the calendar I will grumble and gripe my way through a dozen other parenthood tasks that it seems a lot of other mothers take in stride. (And I guess that's what I mean by "natural": She who considers it a pleasure and a privilege to wipe her child's nose for the fortieth time that day even when said child is three years old and has full awareness of his boogers and a snot rag in his pocket and use of both of hands. Or she who doesn't worry about getting blood on her shirt when her son smashes his face [because he tripped on the pink dress she put him in].)

Anyhoo, I had a wonderful Mother's Day doing mostly nothing of consequence and enjoying the heck out of it. When I tucked Wombat into bed that night (after he screamed "HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY" in my ear one last time for good measure), I thanked him for making me a mom. He looked puzzled, so I filled him in on the not-small fact that before he lived with us, I wasn't a mom at all. "But what were you, then?" he asked. "Just a lady," was my best answer. "And then you were born and I became a mom!"

I don't tend to describe myself as a mother first and everything else after, but to that little boy (and the one on the way), I do hope it feels that way to them for a good number of years: "My mom is my mom and...a bunch of other stuff." If Wombat sees me as his mother first and a person second, heck, that sounds pretty right on the money to me.

When a family's main breadwinner finds himself suddenly unemployed, it's hard not to spend one's waking hours running in circles going WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP EMERGENCY STATUS CODE RED THE END IS NIGH. This reaction, I imagine, is normal if not expected.

(Although it is a little easier to skip the running in circles part when one is seven and a half months pregnant and in no mood to move more than necessary. Instead I spin circles WITH MY MIIIIIIIND.)

Panicky doomsday thoughts aside, I refuse to apologize for what a freakin' spectacular time we've been having during Simon's surprise hiatus from the workforce. Having him around all day has felt downright indulgent, and although it's true that absence can make the heart grow fonder, it's also true that you can't tackle-hug someone who's not there.

This is our lemonade-out-of-lemons spring, and it tastes pretty fantastic.

New gardening gloves and strawberry lemonade pops.

At Grandma and Grandpa's house.

Earth Day birthday party.

First swim of the year.

Backyard break.

Otter Pops on the tire swing.

First BART ride.

First real Legos. (Some kind of flying Star Wars contraption.

Go-carting with Grandpa.

Making sushi.

Date night (we went for hot dogs).

Brunch at Ann's Soup Kitchen (in the shirt I swear he doesn't wear every single day).

More lemonade.

My own little family.

It's my birthday, y'all. Thirty-three. Is it okay to say that I feel seriously, majorly old? I mean...I'm not going to offend anyone who's even older, am I? (Fogies, all of you!) It just feels...weird and awkward and WRONG. Or maybe it's just that I feel weird and awkward and wrong, like who is this person in this body with this husband and practically two entire children and this house and this job and this grown-up life, which finally includes a mostly organized craft room? Certainly not me. (I HAVE A CRAFT ROOM, YOU GUYS. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?)

"Oh, I felt so much more comfortable with myself in my thirties," they say. "Phooey," I say. The whole thing feels like an elaborate trick. Where are the hidden cameras?

(Simon points out that this is my Jesus Year and that if I'm ever going to die for a cause, now would be the time to do it. Instead I've decided to have enchiladas for lunch and dinner today and then just wait and see how the next 365 days unfold.)

And yet (of course) it's hard to obsess about my own weirdness--or rather, the weirdness of being me--when I'm surrounded by such wonderful and generous things and people. Wombat is delighted that I am thirty-three at the same time he is three and a third, and Simon surprised me this morning with strawberry and pancakes for breakfast and a book (because Wombat asserted that I would like a book much more than a CD, and he was right), and then a bouquet of flowers came from Nintendo (and, I suspect, Brand about Town; thank you!), and then there were cards in the mail and @s on Twitter and messages on mostly-useless-for-everything-else Facebook, and DAMN, curled at the edges as I am, I just feel so lucky.

We've been busy and I have a lot to say, but the past week or so has been one long stutter in this space as I've grappled with how to capture what I hesitate to call "blessings" even though I can't think of a better word for all this bounty. Sure, I wake up with excruciating rib pain, spend most days frantically working to keep us out of medieval debtor's prison, and then go to sleep with the world's rowdiest fetus practicing what can only be in-utero jumping jacks until he has exhausted himself into a peaceful, thumbsucking slumber. It's full-on spring here, and the sun is shining and the flowers are blooming and the veggie garden is in, and I just want to hug everything. See? Weird.

But oh, thirty-three, you are going to be fun, I can tell.

Hello? Hi!

The three of us spent last week in Salt Lake, and by "the three of us," I mean myself, Wombat, and The Belly, which at 28 weeks yesterday is busting forth in full third-trimester shamelessness. (I cannot believe we're at the third trimester already. I CANNOT BELIEVE IT.)

We went on a preschool tour a few weeks ago and at the end of the hour we mentioned the new baby coming in July and the administrator lady's reaction was, "Oh? Wow! How great! Congratulations!" My outward reaction was one of appropriate gratitude for her kind thoughts and well wishes, but inside I was like, "COME ON." Now, I know you can never be too cautious with this stuff, and it's almost never safe to assume, but when the pregnant woman in question confirms what most seeing people would have to admit was already an obvious suspicion, you don't really need to act surprised. I mean, thanks, I guess, but really, I'm pretty sure we all know what's going on here.

Our next door neighbor saw me grunt my way out of the car yesterday post glucose test (yay) and noticed for the first time that I was pregnant again (I think because I've been wearing coats and jackets for the last six months?). "I see you made her swallow another watermelon seed," she said to Simon in her particular drawl. I love her.

Simon likes to say to pretty much everyone, "Oh, she's not pregnant, she's just a fat piece of crap," and the only way he can get away with that is because he is THE most kind, respectful, attentive expectant husband and practically waits on me hand and foot--even without my asking, and even when I'm not pregnant. The only problem with this trade-off is that strangers don't really know that side of him, or that he is 75 percent sarcastic across the board, and so they tend to react with visible horror when he says to me in line at the burrito place, for instance, "Enchiladas again, fatty?" with a completely straight face. I love him too.

That said, he has his...dim moments. A few weeks ago he asked if I needed help putting on my shoes, and when I graciously accepted such a sweet offer, he painstakingly untied them and loosened the laces and then...set them down on the floor in front of me and walked away. Uh...that wasn't the part I needed help with, but thanks?

Other pregnancy updates, since it feels overdue:

--YouI know you'reI'm pregnant when: youI want to order free mulch delivery, even though the last load of mulch, delivered two weeks before Wombat was born, took THREE YEARS to clear off the driveway. And yet...I really think we need some mulch.

--How many times am I getting up to pee at night? Once...a month. It's pretty awesome, and that's all I have to say about that.

--I'm not the type who can name a baby I haven't actually seen (although I get why some people do it), and a few weeks ago I suggested sort of offhandedly an ex-utero name for Mompth (we've finally convinced Wombat that an alternate name is a good thing; he has suggested "Lorax"), and Simon's response was, "Yes. That's it. It's great. Done!" With still three months to go, I'm not yet ready to commit, but I can say that thinking about this kid as X instead of "Mompth" feels as significant an event as finding out the sex. All of a sudden, it's not Generic Baby Boy anymore starfishing against my internal organs, it's [probably] X. [Probably] X! My son!

--Simon still razzes me about the time I was pregnant with W and my usual longwinded babble of nonsense sleeptalking took a turn for the brief and clear with a single word: "baby." Wombat's a sleeptalker (and -walker) too, and a while back Simon picked out, in one string of his mumbles, this: "baby brother." Aw.

--I remember being at a friend's bridal shower at just barely 7 months pregnant with Wombat and admitting things were starting to get a bit uncomfortable now. So yes, we're right on schedule.

--At my latest OB appointment, the doctor mentioned my blood pressure was going up a bit (normal at this stage, but something to keep an eye on), and when she threw out the phrase "We might consider modified rest if we need to," my response was, "Doc, if I rested more than I already do, I'd be dead." On weekends I unchain from my desk chair and usually make an effort to Go Out and Do Something, but even then it's limited to just walking (hobbling) around, not, like, going to spin class. If anything, I figured I needed *more* exercise, not less. (One round of Just Dance 3--thanks, Nintendo!--was more exercise than I'd gotten in the last six months.) With Simon home these past few weeks, he can vouch for how much rest I'm getting (and even more now that he's here to do ALL the dishes and laundry and vacuuming and kid-schlepping.) Seriously, I sleep around 9 or 10 hours every night and then I sit in my chair from 9 to 5, getting up only to add or remove liquids from my body. How could I possibly do less than that? Is all this typing putting a strain on my system? I hardly think so.

--I'm constantly exhausted too, and that's while doing only ULTRA-lite parenting and almost no squalor protection whatsoever (although reader Books SENT ME A STEAM MOP, Y'ALL, so that's about to change). "You're tired because you have a preschooler to chase around!" everyone says, at which point I remind them that my preschooler is at daycare eight-plus hours a day, during which I'm either (a) sitting in a desk chair or (b) sitting on a toilet.

--Six pounds in three weeks? Six pounds in three weeks! I'm taking applications for volunteers willing to push me around on a handtruck for the next twelve weeks (and maybe a month or so after that). Perhaps this explains everything.

--There is no excuse for me. For real.