All right, enough about the carpet. It’s clean. It’s dry. Dry-ish. Mostly dry. Dry enough. Whatever.

The furniture is still oddly and crowded-ly not where it belongs. I apparently harbor some mistaken belief that we do not need to process laundry when the household is thus unsettled, so we are very nearly out of clean socks and whatnot. I may have to remedy that situation.

Entirely unrelated to the clean carpet is this: we have a dwindling supply of spoons in our house. We have something like a dozen sets of utensils, but only about seven spoons left. We’re fairly certain the kids sometimes throw them away, but we’d never actually observed them do so. Until last night. Sort of.

Audrey had finished her dinner, and I asked her to put her spoon in the sink. I’m not entirely sure she knows which part of the kitchen would properly be described as the sink, but I figured she’d follow the bigger kids and all would turn out well. A minute later, Dane and I heard the sound not of a spoon hitting the sink, but of the trash cupboard opening and shutting.

We agreed that she had probably disposed of her spoon, and that we should retrieve it. And then we both promptly forgot all about it. Until this morning, when we heard the garbage truck rolling down the street.

“Did you ever find that spoon?” Dane asked. Um, no. He raced out to the curb and discovered, shockingly, that our trash hadn’t yet been collected; he grabbed last night’s bag and tossed it on the patio to dig through at our leisure. Spoon crisis averted! Or so we thought.

The “leisure” thing happened sometime after dinner tonight, long after the trash and recycling had been carted away, their contents removed to goodness-knows-where.

Dane scrupulously sorted through the 14 gallon trash bag only to discover, sadly, no spoon. Looks like she recycled it. And so it is that we’re down to six.

I think I mentioned that we were having our carpet cleaned, yes? Yes. And clean it is. Clean and wet. Do you know that you shouldn’t really walk on wet carpet? Of course you do. Wet carpet becomes dirt-infested way faster than dry carpet does, and you just got the carpet clean again, for [something]’s sake.

So. Due to the interesting if not especially accessible layout of our house and to the fact that we spent the day not walking on the carpet, we did not have access to: our backyard. One of our bathrooms. And a storage closet. In addition to the carpeted room, of course.

None of which sounds like a big deal. And I was so, so clever—I took everything I thought we might need out of there ahead of time! Yes. Well. It did not take long to become apparent that, with everyone in the house using the one remaining bathroom, I had not grabbed enough extra toilet paper from the storage closet. (“Enough” being “any.”)

I also didn’t think of moving nail clippers or band-aids, neither of which would be required by a normal person in a typical day. I, as it turns out, am neither normal nor typical, but I am now missing half a toenail on my right foot. No idea how THAT happened, but there was a lot of blood involved, and a wee bit of hopping over the wet carpet to procure a band-aid. And then the nail clippers. And then the toilet paper, because how could it NOT be needed RIGHT THEN?

But my carpet is clean, and not, I think, blood-spattered. And it may even be dry by tomorrow.

So! Important bit of trivia we’ve learned today:

If you live in a house consisting entirely of furnished rooms, it is unlikely that you will be able to move all the furniture out of any one of those rooms and have it be reasonably well absorbed by the rest of the house.

We’re having our carpets cleaned tomorrow morning. And by “carpets” I mean “carpet in the one carpeted room of our house, which hasn’t been cleaned since… since… I think at least since Audrey was born.” We decided to pull the furniture out of there to make for more thorough cleaning. Brilliant plan! Except that our living room doesn’t have room for an extra couch, our playroom can’t accommodate a crib or a baby hammock, and the hallway isn’t the ideal location for a pair of skinny drawer cabinet-y things. Oh well. They’ll be back where they belong when the carpet dries, in approximately 4.6 days.

I don’t typically dispense parenting advice here (mostly because: do I LOOK LIKE I know what I’m doing?), but it appears that I can do away with two monumental social dilemmas in one shot, so let’s give it a go, shall we?

Apparently, parents are playing with their kids too much, but are not reading enough to themselves. Okay, folks, here’s what we do. (And yes, this works best if you explain to the kids what’s going to happen ahead of time. Sure, it may require a little practice, but so does riding a bike, and isn’t this at least as useful as exercise? Er… don’t answer that.)

- Get your book.
- Set the kitchen timer for five minutes.
- Sit down with the kids on the floor.
- Play until the timer rings.
- Announce that you’re done playing, but you’ll stay right here while the kids play.
- Open book. Begin reading.

Ta daaa! You’re reading, the kids have something to do, AND you’ve paid attention to them recently! Plus you didn’t have to find a babysitter or bribe a librarian. Everybody wins.

And now I’ll go back to NOT telling you what to do, since that’s what I’m good at.

Tuesday was my birthday (yes, it’s a busy week at our house), which we mostly celebrated by Dane staying home from work so I could read Harry Potter all day. And I couldn’t post to tell you about it because I was busy with the reading of the Harry Potter, in case that wasn’t clear.

I’ve finished. So now I’m wondering: Should I name the baby Seamus? Cho? Neville? Lavender? Hmm. Probably not.

I’m also not wondering how the surviving characters are employed or which character got killed off instead of which other character, since I read the interview.

So, how’d you like the book? Did it meet all your Potter-y expectations? (I’m okay with spoilers in the comments section.)

Yesterday was our wedding anniversary. Eight years ago today, Dane and I were on a plane; eight years ago yesterday, we exchanged vows in front of a few hundred of our closest friends and family members, as well as a fair number of people we’d never met before (mostly of the “I remember when Dane was a baby…” variety); eight years ago the day before THAT, we were, I don’t know, stuffing party favors or something, probably.

And zero years ago yesterday, I was trying to swipe a choking hazard out of Audrey’s hand before it reached her mouth, and instead managed to poke her in the eye. She, reasonably, burst into tears, sobbing, “Want Dada! Want Dada!”

“That’s right,” Dane told her when he got home a bit later, “Daddy doesn’t poke you in the eye. Because Daddy loves you.”

And I kindly resisted poking HIM in the eye. Seeing as it was our anniversary and all.

(And now I’ll have to get Dane to read this post to assure me it’s clear that we were both joking. Which it probably isn’t. But we were. Clearly.)

Today Audrey was running around in a flouncy little Hanna Andersson sundress, which happens to be one of the half dozen or so outfits she has ever owned that were not handed down to her. No, this one was purchased specifically for her, and it’s a cotton Hanna. It should last forever. But I noticed a faded spot on the back, probably from spot treating too vigorously (the kid can stain anything, I tell you, ANYTHING), and I started wondering whether I should keep it when she outgrows it.

I was leaning toward sure, keep it, who’s going to notice a faded area on the BACK of a dress, when she smeared apricot all down the front of it. And then, just in case I didn’t quite get the message, she sat down next to the open front door, caught on the corner, and crawled away, tearing a sizeable hole in the skirt.

So I’m thinking that particular dress wasn’t meant to be. That’s fine. We can survive without the dress, cute as it may be. Audrey is nearly too big for it anyway, and this next baby may very well be a boy. Or it may be a girl. I really have no idea.

We have one name picked out. Not one boy name and one girl name; just one name. It won’t work for both.

We’ve never yet managed to come up with more than one name per pregnancy, even though we don’t ever know if we’re expecting a boy or a girl ahead of time; I suspect it would take us an extra nine months to agree on both a boy name AND a girl name. So far, the baby has fit the name every time. And, like I said, we have one name.

And now I’m entirely convinced we’re getting the other sort of baby. The sort for whom this name would not be a great match. But we’ve still got plenty of time to think. Weeks and weeks! As many as nine! Or as few as… five-ish! Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear. How long do you think a newborn can be nameless without inflicting some kind of psychological damage? Tell me that you think it’s a long long long time, won’t you?

For some unknown and perfectly horrible reason, Audrey has given up sleep for Lent. Except, of course, that it ISN’T Lent, and we don’t even belong to a Lent-observing denomination. So I suppose she’s just given up sleep for summer.

I sort of have a problem with this. Mostly I have a problem with ME having to give up sleep for summer because she’s awake and ready to face the day (albeit crankily) at o’dark thirty every morning.

I suppose we have now come to the appropriate place to insert a quip about this being good preparation for new-baby sleep deprivation (it’s like new-baby boot camp! so cute!), but I’m not going to do it. Because first of all, you already thought it, so what would be the fun in me saying it? And secondly, not sleeping is NOT the way I’d like to prepare for a new baby.

It’s like preparing to go on Survivor. Now, YOU might want to prepare by getting into shape. You can be the Hot Chick. But I’m thinking I’ll have better luck as the Fat Guy Who Starves off a Bunch of Weight and Still Never Looks Gaunt. Same logic applies: if you’re going to have a new baby, don’t practice sleeplessness. Stock up on eight-hour nights.

So. If someone could just explain this to Audrey, I’d appreciate it. My Survivor analogy doesn’t seem to be getting through.

So we have this case of gallon-size plastic bags. We usually buy the easy-zipper variety so the kids can operate the baggies themselves, but the last time we invested in non-reusable plastic bags, we went with the heavy-duty freezer safe kind instead.

They suck.

To be fair, they’re technically just defective. But every single time we use one, the blue half of the locking deal separates from the bag, leaving one side with the whole lock and the other side with… nothing.

It would be like having a whole zipper attached to the left half of your sweater. Interesting, maybe; unexpected, certainly. But capable of zipping to the right half of your sweater? Not so much. Which I suppose wouldn’t be such a big deal except that THAT’S THE WHOLE POINT OF HAVING A ZIPPER. Or in this case, a zip-top bag.

And even the utter lack of functionality wouldn’t be QUITE so annoying if not for the slogan mocking me from the box top every time I go to use a bag: Designed with you in mind!

What kind of insult IS that, exactly? Are they comparing me to a defective plastic baggie, or did they just decide to make them useless because of me? Either way: thanks, plastic bag company!

It may be time to invest in a more eco-friendly storage solution.

So sorry to have abandoned you all for days and days—shall we catch up a bit?

I’m pretty sure the whole drowning in snot business was allergies—and still is! Some days are better than other days, but it won’t go away. It is better if I keep all the doors and windows shut, which I’m doing approximately never, given that it’s ninety bazillion degrees outside and we live in the land of no air conditioning. Isn’t your immune system supposed to be suppressed during pregnancy, not hyperactive? Yes, well, that’s one more thing I’m doing not quite right, apparently.

Audrey’s not sleeping well in this heat, which means no one is sleeping well in this heat. I could lie down right now and not wake up again until Thursday afternoon. Well, except to pee. And eat. And get eighteen drinks of water. But other than that, I could sleep right through! It’s just that these kids keep waking up every morning, wanting to have breakfast prepared and whatnot…

So what’s new with you?