It’s going to be high-90s and humid again. And it is so frustrating to me how little I can accomplish when it is that hot. Just walking and breathing is enough of a challenge, and my energy is gone much earlier than usual. I’m dreading the part when I have to be outside. Yuck.

We have entered the shrieking phase of toddlerhood.

My ears hurt.

Why do they do this? 

Today’s Woot is insane, it’s such a good deal.

Too bad we have a gas hookup for our dryer. We need a new one of both.

I am so irritated on so very many levels, and really, I don’t have any one person to address for my irritation. The midwives I use have lost their privileges at the local hospital in my town because the ob/gyn who, for lack of a better term, sponsored them, doesn’t want to do so anymore because they were also delivering babies at another town 25 miles away. And the way Jersey is laid out, there’s no way that I would voluntarily go to that hospital when the one I delivered Freebird at is literally 2 miles away. Maybe 3 max. I had a great birth experience there.

So I’m seriously bummed and angry that this doctor decided to withdraw his support from their practice. For them: they can only offer delivery services at one hospital. For me: at 33.5 weeks, I have to preregister at a hospital about 35 minutes away, and face knowing that the convenience and familiarity of the hospital I delivered at last time is not an option this time around. All because of doctor/nurse/CNM politics. Oddly enough: the hospital in my town? Desperately wants them back. But they can’t force an affiliated doctor to sponsor them. Sheesh.

There are good things about this hospital, though. Like the one I delivered at, all rooms are private, and according to the midwives it is a lovely place with brand new facilities and beautiful rooms. They offer rather new techniques like aromatherapy (smells while I’m in labor? NO THANK YOU - DO NOT WANT), birthing tubs, birthing showers, and - my personal favorite - a complimentary massage to all new moms. I am all about that part.

The bad things? It’s 26 miles away, which in Jersey terms is about 35 minutes. Hubby swears if I’m in labor he’ll drive at the speed of light on the interstate to get me there, but man, if I go into labor in rush hour? I am sca-rooood. The no-longer-an-option hospital is in my town, and we could shoot down any number of side streets to get there. The one I have to go to now requires at least three highways, including two interstates.

Oh well. At least I have good a good option, even if it isn’t the option I wanted. 

Ah, the all-night yodel of the Fukui-san cat, who is currently locked in the third floor bathroom until he learns that The Litter is Where You Poop (not the floor of the office, the landing of the stairs, the dining room, or any of the other random places he chooses to drop a turd).

Fukui, to sum up 5 years of litter-tales, is very very picky about his litter, and with three other cats in the house who are all above him in the pecking order, we suspect that he resists using a litter box that anyone else has used. Like I said - he’s one of four cats. This is not entirely possible. So periodically we have to “retrain” or “Forcibly remind” Fukui that he goes in The Litter and Not Anywhere Else. We lock him in a room for a few days, with a litter and water and food. Then we lock him in a larger space (don’t worry, we do visit him. Though he is PISSED at us, no pun intended, and wants OUT).

After about two weeks, he’s back on the litter. Mostly. The last time we did this was prior to Freebird’s arrival, so I’m sure that the imminent changes are making Fukui extra nutty and ornery about his turd locales. Jeez. Wait until we start renovating the house. He’ll want to go live somewhere else.

Once we let him out, my next step is to add a bunch of litter boxes to our current collection and see if he can choose one and stick with it. Gah.

And really, the bulk of the work falls on Hubby because I can’t scoop cat litter while I’m pregnant. I devise the chamber location for confining Fukui, but I can’t get involved with the actual output. So poor Hubby’s life is really half spent putting poop in bags, and the other half spent washing his hands. 

Last night, Hubby had to work late (poor dude) and I was home with Freebird for the dinner-and-bed routine (poor dude). I have to say, I know that I am Not Fun right now as a mommy. I’m big, I’m round, I move slow, and I’m more likely to pick him up and carry him than I am to let him run because I can’t keep up. I’m seriously No Fun. And I know it.

But Freebird? He’s matching my No Fun with Utter Toddler Mayhem. A small sample:

1. Highchair? He greets the highchair with Scottish martial arts: “FUKKKKYEW!” He wants to eat at a big boy table with a big boy chair. So I’ve set his booster seat up at the dining room table, and let him eat there while I unpack his diaper bag and get lunch ready. Problem is? He doesn’t want to LEAVE the big boy chair when it’s time to go upstairs. “MINE! NO! MINE!” he hollers, and grabs the tray, preventing me from removing it, and therefore him, from the coveted booster chair. I ask you: WTF?

2. Boots? Oh my God, just mention “Boots” to Hubby or me, and either we’ll laugh the chuckle of the mentally exhausted, or we’ll put our head in our hands and whine like the beaten fools we are. Freebird is in LOVE with his BOOTS. They are brown leather boots. They are, in fact, just about too small. They are winter shoes, to boot (ha ha). And? Doesn’t matter. He loves them. They’re the first thing he asks for when he wakes up. He wants to wear them to bed, and when we say no, oh, behold the tantrum. It’s epic, the boot tantrum. I told him last night while I was getting him undressed that he had to say night-night to his boots and see them in the morning. I am surprised the neighbors didn’t call child services.  I mean, seriously. WTF?

3. Shoes? Speaking of shoes, I was informed by one of the daycare ladies that Freebird, my precious little toddler man, has been knocking down a little girl, stealing her crocs (which are lavender), running away with them, and putting them on his feet. My child is stealing ladies’ footwear! The teacher told me this with a straight face and I seriously almost hurt myself laughing. “He steals little girls’ shoes?!” Oh, man. So tomorrow, we take him to get Crocs of his own, in many colors like blue or green. Because he is knocking little girls down to steal their shoes. Seriously: WTFOMGWTF?

4. Diaper changes? Hubby and I, we are mastering the standing-up-diaper-change routine. This is Not Possible for me when there’s poop. Not happening. He has to lie down. And the “I don’t want to lie down” tantrum is 3rd behind the “Big boy chair” tantrum and the almighty holy shit DEFCON1 “Boots” tantrum. I mean, damn. The poor boy inherited my sensitive skin (and my temper if the tantrums are any measure) and if we don’t remove the stench of doody from his skin, he gets a maleficent rash. You’d think he wanted diaper rash with the resistance to laying down. Man. WTF?

So you can see why Hubby and I are just a bit tired.

When I turn on the weather and see the “9” in front of the high temperature, I groan. And that “9” appears all week long.

*sigh*

However, my adventures with the MomAgenda, they are a “10.” I’m plotting things to do, making notes to myself, and generally kicking ass in my self-organization. Love it. Even though I had to switch to an older purse to accommodate it, I’m happy. And besides, I ordered a purse organizer for the older purse so I’ll be just as anal in my in-purse layout as I was with the much-beloved “Butler Bag.” If only the Butler were taller. But oh well. I’ll go back to it at some point.