Catching Up

There's a number of things I've been delinquent in posting lately, largely because if I don't have time to sit and write a significant essay for these posts I prefer not to do them. And I don't have time. But such is life. And the Army has taught me, if nothing else, that I'm better off having any product on hand than holding out for a perfect one and never getting there and looking like a real ass in front of my peers and chain of command. And my readers have demended a product.

The Army has taught me other things too, but many of those lessons I oughtn't print for legal or moral or not wanting to ruin anybody's idealistic patriotism reasons.

First thing, pictures. Ta da.

Mind you, this was over a month ago. Next thing to do will be getting a picture of Bean. We have one. I need to scan it. Again, been busy lately. Pictures can be emailed to those of you suspecting that maybe I found some random pregnant woman in my apartment and took photographs of her instead.

Next order of business. Bed Rest. Doc has the Wife spending most of the day on the bed or couch, which leaves me to be the primary source of food/entertainment/etc. Problem is, I'm not much of a nurturer. I have to say that again for emphasis. NOT A NURTURER. When people cry, my first impulse is indifference and confusion, followed by nervousness and frustration, which is not a helpful response by any stretch of the imagination.

As luck would have it, the Wife is a bit of a cryer.

I'm also not much for entertainment, which is a bad thing because the Wife is approaching certifiability, thanks to spending all day in bed waiting for something to happen. Nothing happens. Except the baby auditionioning for the Riverdance - on her bladder - which, to hear her tell it, is simply excruciating.

I'm also not much of a cook, which is a related issue to the nurturing. I've always been content to scavenge when not finding meals readily available, but the Wife not so much. I've messed up both toast and instant mashed potatos. Twice. (Hot market tip for you: Invest in whatever company owns Stouffers.) I'm not admiting all this out of pride so much as intense shame and guilt, and the hope that you will pity the Wife. Please. Pity her. Bad sign: The Boss' wife sent fruitcake this week. The Wife has eaten most of it.

One of my fellow LTs shamed me by bringing over a tray of chicken and eggplant parmesean the other day. For all the women who had offered to do anything we needed, he was the first to actually show up at the door. He is the most permanent bachelor I've ever known, and dubbed "not boyfriend material" by more than one officer wife. His father's most sage advice, discussed on many a morning PT run, was "Have kids. Don't get married." I was beyond touched by this gesture, though. Then again, my increased sappiness could be due to the pretty consistent 13+ hour workdays that have been happening lately. That hasn't helped the condition of the house any, either.

It's starting to look like we may have to cancel Christmas. Except the going to church and recognizing the birth of Christ part, which, I guess, is the point to begin with, so disregard.

And naturally, instead of cleaning, I've now passed the majority of the evening online, my laptop has cooked my thighs medium-rare, and I find myself entirely lacking some clever closing thought, moral, or twist. I need to find something with which I can spike my eggnog.