punkly.

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gash.

The computer, which J refers to as, "the computer, where Mommy works," sits in front of a green wall with a four foot strip of plaster repair tape and joint compound. The strip starts at my seated eye level. It is a rotten repair job, performed by an electrician I wouldn't recommend, at a time when it suddenly became very important to me that repair jobs not be rotten.

We're nesting again.

I should say, Marc's nesting under my direction. Every few years, I'm the one making the lists, mentally indexing the crises of the day, and trying to remember not to forget to remember this, or that, or any otherwise inconsequential thing. Today I convinced him to buy a chainsaw. And use it.

The house, which formerly held a family of eight, has surely seen its share of this behavior. At least, I hope I'm not the only pregnant mess to have roamed these rooms late at night, worrying over my child's bed, choking down more antacids, and peeing for what must be the seventh time tonight.

I hope the next round doesn't involve nailing anything near that gash, because I have a feeling there's a live electrical wire just below the surface.

I hope we get everything done in time. We're at 36 weeks and counting.

Posted at 2006-07-02 19:47:15