so much to do!

When I was nineteen, my grandfather was ninety-two. (Bear with me here; you'll see the connection with baby in a moment.) He had dementia so bad that he would leave his house and get lost, and he'd lived in the neighborhood since the 1940s. He drove his car into a ditch one day and that was the end of his driving days. My parents had him move into an assisted living home, but they didn't lock the doors or force residents to stay, and he'd wander away from that, too. Finally, my parents decided they had no other option: he'd have to move into our house and mom would take care of him. The only problem was that there wasn't room for mom, dad, grandpa, and four kids in a small ranch. I was the oldest, so I had to move out.

My parents and I searched for a place for me to live. I think I was working at a local photography studio at the time making minimum wage, and that's not much when you're thinking of renting an apartment. The apartments in our area don't allow cosigners that aren't planning on being residents, either. There was only one place left: my grandfather's house, which my father had grown up in. It was (is) in a low-income neighborhood that had once been quite decent; it was built during World War II as temporary housing for army veterans--white army veterans (so strange to me, since I've grown up in a segregation-is-illegal world my entire life). The problem with it when I moved in was that it was still standing. Most of the original residents were either dead, dying, or had been moved to a safer residence by their offspring long before I got there. In their place were very low-income renters who didn't give a damn about the condition of the houses or neighborhood. The type who hear a couple fighting down the block and come out on their front porches or lean out of their windows to watch (no one had air conditioning and the walls to these houses and duplexes were quite thin). The type that would get drunk and stand in their backyards (which just happened to adjoin to mine) at three a.m. yelling and crying, disturbing my peace enough on a worknight that I'd call the cops. It was (is) the type of neighborhood where hearing the occasional gunshot was not uncommon, and definitely not a car backfiring. Despite all of this, I was excited: I was living on my own for fairly cheap (for free, at first) and had been familiar with this house and neighborhood all of my life. Except for the noise and nosy neighbors, it didn't really bother me. (I'm almost to my point now.)

One day I locked myself out of my house and my car. I have a really, really bad habit of losing or forgetting my keys, even if they've been in my hand in the past thirty seconds. I just walked out of the house without them. I went to my next-door neighbor's house and knocked on the door, asking if I could borrow a phone (I had also walked out without my entire purse, including my cell phone). At first he offered to have his son break into the house for me instead. I immediately became suspicious, seeing as how my house had just been broken into two weeks prior and a laptop had been stolen. The perpetrator needed a cinder block to get in through the window, meaning he/she had been fairly short. I must have had a look on my face because the neighbor immediately said, "Not that he's ever been in your house before." Uh huh. How much money did you get for that computer at the pawn shop? I wondered. Or is it still in your house?

When I politely refused a voluntary break-in, he invited me in while he went to get his phone. Immediately, two regrets. One, I couldn't believe his family lived like this. The front room and the kitchen, which were all I could see into, were piled at least five feet high with stuff--stuff everywhere, and only a narrow path to walk through. It was obvious this stuff had been there for quite a while and wasn't going anywhere soon. I thought fire hazard (I had previously dated a firefighter), but also appalled at the living conditions of his family. And when he handed me a pre-paid cell phone my other regret hit me. This family was really in a tight place financially, and here I was using a pre-paid cell phone to make a call because I locked my keys in my house. I made the call, offered to pay for it, and he refused. Some family member arrived a few minutes later with my house keys and found me waiting on my front porch, and off I went.

I told you all of this to put this into context: Right now, my house is driving me crazy. I was trying to think of an appropriate metaphor to describe the state it's in: war zone? No, too perilous. Disaster area? No, because we haven't suffered structural damage like most homes hit with natural disaster. Then I thought of my former neighbor's house, and it hit me that that's what my own house reminds me of now. I'll admit it isn't quite to that degree, but my living room and dining room are filled with boxes of new baby stuff; my kitchen counters, which for some reason I can never keep clear, are piled with various objects; my family room, office, hallway, and bedroom floors are covered with pieces of stuffing, plastic ties from hardwood floor boxes, hangers, and dog toys (all thanks to my puppy, and all of which I just picked up yesterday--where does she find this stuff?); my office still isn't fully moved into and organized; my bed is unmade and dust has appeared everywhere (I just dusted less than a week ago!); and the baby's room has power tools everywhere, and only 90% of a hardwood floor installed (yay! 90% done already!). There's just so much to do before baby comes, including keeping my sanity. The worst part? I can only do so much about it, at least until I'm able to start moving stuff into the baby's room.

I woke up with a plan of action for the day: work on school stuff in the morning (read Rachelle's perspectus and give her comments), go grocery shopping, and then start sewing in the afternoon (an extra crib bumper, baby room curtains and cushions, etc.). But I also woke up to an email telling me I got an editing job that needs to be done within the next couple of days. Here comes some money, there go my plans (funny how plans float so easily out the window when nothing else ever seems to get off the ground). But the money will ease my husband's mind just a bit, so the cleaning, the sewing, the organizing, the sanity can wait. Who needs sanity anyway? As Mark Twain said, "Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination." (Although I can tell you right now that insanity and happiness aren't all that compatible, either.)

Baby, let's hope your mommy can get it together before you arrive...