It is 8 o’clock in the morning on my favorite day of the week. My son is still asleep and should be for at least another hour. John took the girls to school a half an hour ago, and on Fridays, they stay until 1:30. (This is late for Carter and early for Eliott and if I could lobby for 1:30 all-school pick up every day through at least sixth grade, you better believe I would.) The heat is kicking on in the house, but the weather predicts it should be sixty degrees tomorrow.
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Was Labor Day a month ago? John keeps commenting how quickly this year is flying by, meanwhile, four measly weeks ago feels like an eternity in my mind. But Labor Day weekend was a pinnacle moment for me in this pregnancy.
It is when I took my nesting hormones and actually applied them to something productive. For real.
I find it funny that the Urban Dictionary definition of “nesting” includes ridding the house of anything “potentially harmful” to the soon to be born child. It turns out, on Labor Day Weekend, this meant the fetus’ father and his older sisters.
The UnderToad 