I was waiting until after my OB appointment this morning to write a post because I was going to give you a very exciting Baby Sandy update. Apparently my pregnancy brain forgot that appointments between now and about 36 weeks are all incredibly boring and pretty much unnecessary. Besides the Big Giant Important Ultrasound on August 5th, I have pretty much nothing to report until I start having contractions. Sorry for my super normal, boring baby-baking.

The most exciting part of the whole visit was that I got to go BY MYSELF since my parents are visiting this week and Mom watched Baby Evan for me. Of course I forgot to bring a book, or my knitting, or even my phone so I didn’t get to take full advantage of a baby-free lap. The two screaming, running children terrorizing the waiting room didn’t help either – especially when one of them slammed full speed into my knee caps and I had to practically bite my tongue in half to stop myself from saying “NO. NO running in the doctor’s office! That is a POOR CHOICE.” But since the poorly behaved children weren’t MY poorly behaved children it was still a nice break.

My blood pressure is good (excellent, actually, super duper healthy low and TWO nurses commented on it), I’ve gained 5 lbs so far which I am extreme happy with since last time I gained 15 pounds between getting a positive test and my very first check-up at 5 week 6 days and my only goal for this time around is not be THE SIZE OF A HOUSE before the third trimester, and the baby’s heartbeat is very strong.

Speaking of the heartbeat, it was also fast (165 bpm) and the doctor said “That means it’s a girl.”

Ok, then she said that’s not necessarily true and might just be an old wives tale but she had at least a 50% chance of being right.

But that teeny tiniest of hints might just be enough motivation to start knitting a sweater out of this pink yarn I’ve had sitting in my drawer for months. Maybe.

"No don't worry Rory, she's not dead. This turtle just suffers from a condition known as Bubble Butt.*"

*Non-made up condition. Swearsies. It was caused by an accident with a boat propeller.

Not so much.

It’s incredibly unfortunate that the son of a Navy Chief and the grandson of a Coast Guard Officer (official motto: Semper Paratus, which is Latin for “why aren’t you wearing your life jacket????”) would hate the water. And yet Baby Evan has gone from perfectly happy to be placed in large, questionable bodies of water to refusing to even stand near a sprinkler. It’s also unfortunate that his parents wasted an enormous amount of money on a boat they can’t really afford thinking it would be a fantastic way to spend time as a family. Now “spending time as a family” consists of alternately clutching a thrashing screaming child and shoving a boob in his mouth to try and calm him down. (That last one is mostly me.)

I seem to have accidentally stumbled upon a solution to our problem though. Or at least, found a cause/effect relationship…

Shorts + shirt + infant life jacket = WTF is wrong with you people??

Swim trunks + rash guard + boat = SRSLY GUYS GET ME OUT OF HERE.

At the lake, this combo is still unpopular.

This was a major breakthrough, accomplished with LOTS of coaxing.

Look Evan! LOOK! DUCKS! Quack quack quack quack!!!! Duckies!!! Isn't that EXCITING? Don't you want to SWIM like the DUCKIES?!?!

Haven't you give up yet woman?

OK. I touched it. Almost. Good enough. And now I am DONE.

Phew, finally part of this water park thing I can get on board with.

Have you seen the trend yet? The one thing all these pictures have in common and the one thing we could change to try and make the baby happier?

Can you see it now?

How about now?

So I guess our current choices are join a nudist colony or just invest in LOTS of sunscreen.

I am declaring WAR. An all-out battled to the death from which no one emerged unscathed and the casualties will be severe. The target of the impending attack: MY FLOORS.

With a dog and two cats, pet hair has always been a problem, but the kind I could generally solve with a broom and the occasional damp paper towel. But add a baby to the mix and suddenly the pet hair dust bunnies grow into tumbleweeds of Cheerios and Goldfish crackers and bits of sandwich and half chewed fruit and sticks and leaves and the kind of foot-blackening dirt that sticks to the floor unless you scrub it with straight bleach and a toothbrush. If I don’t sweep, dry Swiffer, wet Swiffer, mop and vacuum EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. the baby gets so covered in dirt he looks like that kid from Charlie Brown who vibrates with grime. I can’t take him out in public after 3 pm out of fear someone will call CPS. And if CPS comes to my house I’m SCREWED.

I took up the rug this weekend (sidenote: what the HELL was I thinking when I picked out a shag rug for the family room? It’s basically a giant upside down yarn mop that traps every crumb and hair and is IMPOSSIBLE to clean) thinking it would be easier to do a quick mid-day sweep of just the hardwood floor but all it did was create a barren desert for the dirt tumbleweeds to tumble across. Plus my problem with sweeping wasn’t so much rug-related as 300-wooden-blocks-two-dozen-chuck-the-trucks-four-sippy-cups-and-a-partridge-in-a-pear-tree-scattered-acr0ss-my-floor-related.

The most permanent solution to my problem is to get rid of the pets, although I don’t think I can bring myself to actually do that. (A quick Google search for “how long do cats live” reveals no hopeful results.) I suppose the other thing I could do is restrict snacks and meals to the high chair but the idea of making Baby Evan sit still for the 7 or 8 hours a day he’s eating something is laughable. I think he would rather give up food than be strapped in a chair that often – and since I JUST got him to eat I’m not doing anything that might hurt his love of stuffing his face.

So I’m left with war. The kind of furniture moving deep cleaning usually only reserved for the holidays or right before my mother comes. (CRAP. My mother is coming TOMORROW.) I’ll buy stock in Swiffer and reacquaint myself with my Dustbuster. I will pick up toys three times a day instead of once. I will not rest until the baby can strip naked, dump a cup of juice on his head and roll across the room without a single speck of dirt sticking to his body.

Ok, maybe that’s a little too ambitious. But I’ve got to do something.

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They reset the list on Top Baby Blogs so all that begging I did last week was useless. If you could take a second to click on the link below – and then click in the middle of the screen where it says “Vote here!” – I’d really appreciate it. The click is your vote, you don’t have to find me on the list but I encourage you to check out the other blogs over there – TONS of awesome moms (and dads).

First, we remove the onesie.

Then we go for a little drive.

Time to break for a little snack.

Mmmmmm...watermelon.

Oh you mean moving the slide into the kitchen so I can reach the counter ISN'T a wise choice? LOOK I HAVE A BELLY BUTTON!

Nothing to see here. Go back to the couch mama.

Tickle fight with dada

And now it's time for a little chillaxin'

Today’s pictures brought to you by the letter F.

F is for “Fluffy butt”
“Fun”
“Freakin’ adorable”

and of course

“Father’s Day”

Happy Special Dad’s Day to my wonderful husband E! I hope our little terror knows how lucky he is to have you. I know I do.