I’ve never been one to budget my money; I’ve lived a life of: “if there’s money in the bank, we’re doing good”. I’ve gotten away with little savings, not looking ahead and no preparation for unforeseen circumstances. Should something arise that needed to be taken care of, well, that’s what credit cards are for.

I’ve been lucky. We’ve been lucky.

Mike has lived on very much the same track as I, though, a little more recklessly.

We’ve been contemplating a move lately, we have a second child on the way and we want also to stop living pay cheque to pay cheque. I’ve been suffering mild panic attacks as to how we can do all this and still live comfortably.

In comes the budget.

Thank god for family that are willing to help us learn, because without them? I’d be up shit creek without my paddle.

Sunday we sat down and went through our finances and realized that yes, we’re living pay cheque to pay cheque, but within our income. That was nice to know.

Though seeing where exactly all our money is going?

Not so nice.

I think I had heartburn all afternoon.

Now, Mike and I both make decent salaries and we’ve worked really hard to get where we are at this point: job wise. Our careless spending over the past 7 years would show otherwise. Eating out, banking interest charges and frivolous spending have eaten away at much of what would be considered extra cash.

Not cool.

So we’re cutting back. We’re taking out the wasteful spending by making lunches, not eating out as much and paying down loans faster then just by the allotted times given by the banks.

Dude, the hardest part? Making a damn lunch.

I’ve mentioned so many times that I am NOT a cook. I detest the thought of even trying to prepare a simple lunch. I think it goes way back to being forced to make my lunches while in school and having my mother breathe down my neck telling me what was acceptable or not. But I’ve made a commitment to do this and I have to do this in order to get to these financial goals we’ve set for ourselves.

Sunday night consisted of a few grunts and groans and a lot of swearing while I rooted through the cupboards for the easiest possible lunch solutions.

Nothing that I wanted.

I ended up packing a bagel, some cheese slices, an apple and a yogurt then placing it in the fridge to take Monday morning.

I forgot it.

Sitting at work in the morning, I received a call from Mike to let me know that he knew I forgot my lunch. He proceeded to remind me about the importance to taking my lunch and why we’re doing this.

Nothing like making me feel like a complete ass as I munched down on my take out spaghetti and meatballs. I’m pregnant! I can’t very well forgo a meal.

Then even after gentle reminders with a sprinkle of guilt, that lunch remains in the fridge again this morning.

Which leaves me with one conclusion.

Day 2: I royally suck at this budget thing.

Saturday during an afternoon of winter boot shopping for The Kid I looked down while loading him in the car to notice there was a nice shiny new screw in my TIRE. But the tire held air, so Mike wall all: That’s great that it’s still holding air. I’ll take it to the shop to get it patched. One rational normal thinker would assume that meant The Same Day NOT The Next Day. Apparently there is no rational thought required in a case such as this.

Sunday morning Mike trekked to Costso to get it patched only to realize that Every Single Person in our vicinity also required car service, from Costco, at 10am. On a Sunday. Go figure.

Refusing to stand in line, he came home all pissed off that there was a line and he wasn’t first. The Horror! And the car went yet another day with a tire plugged with a screw, just praying that it didn’t deflate or shred to pieces as I drove like a maniac through the city streets. But at daycare pick-up last evening, I noticed it was in fact losing air; that damn screw wasn’t doing it’s job. It was time to lay down The Law.

Once home I laid it on thick to Mike: I’m driving a car throughout the city with Your Child and Me, Your Pregnant Wife in it, and a TIRE that has a SCREW in it and that SCREW is deciding our FATE!!

He headed back to Costco - I assume he was thinking that everyone had their car serviced on Sunday and there wouldn’t be a line on Monday…

There was a line.

He left. Again.

Went to another shop - Canadian Tire (for the US readers: Canadian Tire is kinda like a WalMart but they are notorious for ripping off customers in the auto department) where he waited for TWO HOURS for a service technician to take the tire off, tell him it’s irreparable and to put the spare (donut) on.

Needless to say, he was pissed and vowed to Never Step Foot in That Store Again.

I don’t have a new tire, but a donut. Rated for 80km/hr (50m/hr) and I had to drive on the highway, far. Risking it more then I was with the damn screw I think. Though if you ask Mike, I was just being HORMONAL! and BITCHY!

People, I can’t drive slow. I am a notorious speeder with two rather large tickets under my belt and even though I’ve managed to keep the speeding to a minimum of 20km over the limit, I had to set the cruise to remind myself to take it slow. Slower then I have ever gone before.

I feel like an old bitty in the slow lane, like I was watching my life pass me by. Instead of blonde, my hair should be white and I should move real close to the steering wheel. Maybe put a statue of Baby Jesus on the dashboard. Enough stereotyping for you?

My pregnancy with Carter was anything but eventful. It was plain ol’ by-the-book perfection. I was spoiled. Rotten. Since the beginning of this pregnancy I’ve been accused of faking symptoms. The nausea, dizzy spells and fatigue are just my feeble attempts at getting out of housework: that is, if you ask my husband.

Yes. He insists that I am faking. Every. Last. Symptom. I have been experiencing.

I retch and gag for attention. Why, yes I do honey. Now tell me: what kind of attention am I searching for when ever cough sends me into a fit of gaging? Am I hoping to swoon Matthew McConaughey (Mmmmmm…. Matthew…..) with my charming ways? Hardly my love. Hardly.

He was particularly pugnacious this evening after he had to cook dinner then he had to wash the pans since the mere thought of caked on food will make me retch. I wasn’t feeling very well, but decided to help out by sweeping the kitchen floor when I was all I don’t feel good then he was all oh, yeah. right. You just don’t wanna do anything.

He was right, I was trying to get out of housework. Because I didn’t want to barf up everything I’d eaten today.

He tried to call my bluff. By walking up to me making disgusting gaging and retching sounds.

He called and I folded. I folded into a ball of mush, at the mercy of The Porcelain God, sharing everything I’d consumed for the day. Nice.

Oh and to top it all off. I peed my pants.

[Since having Carter my ability to hold my pee has diminished. Considerably. Nothing like this yet, but only time will tell since I am the WORST at doing Kegels and you know, tightening up down there. ]

I full on Peed. My. Pants.

Ugh.

He’s yet to say anything about the incident and I have avoided him since.

I wonder if he may believe me, even a little.

This is just another reason why I would love for a man to have the blessing of carrying a child.

I’d so fuck with him.

I’d fuck with him so royally, he would cry.

That’s the only thing keeping me going at this point. The thought of what I would do to my husband had he been able to carry this child.

Mike and I started dating the summer after my first year at college. He had just graduated his program and had stayed in town while deciding whether or not to continue going to school. I stayed in town because I didn’t want to go home and live with my parents for the summer.

He’d dated one of my best friends the previous year. It was a short lived relationship that ended anything but amicably; with accusations of cheating from both parties it was a messy situation to say the least. I tried my hardest to stay out of it, even though I was repeatedly sucked in by both parties. My friend moved back home for the summer and Mike and I remained in town, with a couple other friends who had hung around.

After a few months of talking and hanging out (since it was a small town, and Mike and I had some mutual friends it was hard not to spend a lot of time together) we started hanging out, alone. Our relationship began to change, without either of us really realizing what was going on at first. Once I realized that I was starting to have feelings for him, I called the friend immediately. I had to tell her what was going on, and as a good friend, I had to have her blessing before things went any further: which she obliged.

Things began to heat up, and by summer’s end we were inseparable. Sleeping every night together in a single bed of his rented house, we would talk for hours about anything and everything.

Then, one night, he dropped The Bomb on me.

Make that two.

He had accepted a job across country, and was leaving as I started my second year. Just like that, Gone. I couldn’t even put up a fight because it had all been set in motion months ago; when I was nothing more then a summer fling (which I wasn’t hurt by because that’s how he started out for me as well).

And in an instant, he would be gone. 1500 miles away. Would I ever see him again? Was this The End?

Then….

He proposed.

As I lay in that single bed, weeping, trying to accept the fact that this was The End, he asked me to marry him.

Without much thought, I said Yes. Of course I said Yes.

[Did I mention I was 19 at the time?]

Then immediately thoughts of telling my parents that I had not only gone to school for an education, but got a husband, scared the ever-living shit outta me.

Mike left for work at the end of August, and I went back to school. He was gone, across country, for nearly 5 months before he was able to come back.

We delayed our wedding for nearly five years as we both became accustomed to our lives as adults. Getting careers, earning money, finding a place to live. As I look back now, it was the best decision that we could have made after jumping into engagement after merely 4 months of dating.

[You're probably wondering why I'm telling you this, huh?]

Well, since getting married 2 and a half years ago, we haven’t been apart from each other. Prior to being married, we were both always out of town with our respected careers and would spend months of time physically separated, but since our wedding, and even Carter’s arrival, he’s never accepted an out of town job. Until now. This is the first time in 2 and a half years that I have been away from him for more then one day.

My bed was wonderfully HUGE and SO comfortable last night. I loved every second of being able to sprawl about and move without his sighs of disapproval. The dog didn’t cramp my style as she had another whole HALF of the bed for herself.

Blissful sleep last night. Utter bliss.

But, no question. I would sleep, cramped like sardines, in that single every single night with him if I had to.