Sometime last week Ryan and I decided we were in love with a house. A darling little two-story colonial with white siding and blue shutters. It had hardwood floors and old windows and a staircase in the living room that led up to 3 bedrooms, one that I was sure was perfect for a fresh baby boy. The front yard spread out wide and grew two big maple trees, while the backyard housed a birch tree and a clothesline and the promise of a someday garden.
We drove past the house on Sunday afternoon and poked around a little bit. It was empty, so we pulled into the driveway and imagined it was ours. We went slowly through the back alley, discussing how we would build up the crumbling stones in the way back of the yard. Then we went home, Ryan excitedly put on his engineer pants, and quickly drew up a floor plan. He talked about where he'd put his workshop tools, while I pondered over what I'd do to make the pink tile in the bathroom work.
On Monday night we walked through the house twice with our realtor. She informed us that it already had an offer on it, but we could still have a chance.
Today we found out that the offer was accepted, that the sweet blue-shuttered house will not be ours, that some other lucky family will get to enjoy the cozy living room and the big maple trees.
Tonight we plan on saying a few choice swear words, loudly and dramatically, and then eating our feelings. (Well, that's my plan. Ryan will probably just stew quietly, as that is how he seems to manage disappointment.)
The business of house hunting is neither for the faint of heart, nor for the pregnant and emotionally unstable.
Speaking of pregnancy.
When I found out about this baby on that wonderful day in February, I made a promise to myself that I would never complain about the pregnancy. I'm so thankful for this sweet baby boy, that he's alive and healthy and still here with me-- I don't want to ever come across as though I'm not the happiest woman in the world about it all. So I watch what I say and how I say it. And, despite approximately 95 daily trips to the bathroom, being at least 20 degrees hotter than anyone else in any room, and being kept awake at night by flailing baby limbs (I blame you, Michael Phelps!) I think I've done a pretty good job of embracing my discomforts instead of complaining about them.
That being said, please allow me to ask this question: How is one supposed to eat 300 extra calories a day without feeling like Violet Beauregarde after every meal? Because each and every time I eat, I need to sit down and say "OOOoofffff!" which must be so charming to my darling husband, don't you think? There's just no room in there for a growing person AND extra food. I don't know what to do about it.
I mean, this baby's only gonna get bigger.
Your advice is welcome.