When I was living at home I was a bit of a neat freak. I had my motivation though: if I didn’t clean it my mom would - which would give her the opportunity to snoop at the same time, and I KNOW she did. She would check every single nook and cranny for things that I shouldn’t have (like beer in my closet) or weed oregano under my bed. She found it, though she never took it, surprisingly.

I remember one time, about 13 years old - the time that all girls hate their parents, I had a journal where I wrote evil and hateful things. Things I couldn’t very well say to my mom’s face, because well - she’s my MOM. Anyway, one weekend when we were at my dad’s house she cleaned my room. I know because the journal that was buried at the back of my closet was suddenly sitting on my pillow awaiting my arrival.

I don’t know if I was more pissed off at the fact that I felt like she invaded my privacy or the shame I felt for writing such hurtful things about her. That’s when I learned that there’s no where safe to hide anything.

That story really has no merit to what I was actually going to talk about.

Blame it on the pregnancy brain - yeah still pregnant. 7 days to go!

Speaking of pregnancy brain (here I go again!) I had my Mother’s Day card in my car to deliver to my step-mom for about 2 weeks. When did she finally get it? THIS MORNING. I mailed my mom’s card this morning as well. But, it’s the thought that counts? Right. Please tell me it is!

So the actual topic for today, now that I’ve COMPLETELY lost you. (Hello? You still here!?)

I think my most favourite-est part of nearing the end of pregnancy is nesting.

How fabulous is it to completely nuts on cleaning your house? Seriously. Since I left home and haven’t had the motivation of my snooping caring mother I haven’t been as neat and tidy as I once was. Not to mention the fact that I live with a man(child) who is just about one of the dirtiest things I’ve ever seen. For instance, this morning (since he’s off work for the day) he got out of the shower and put on some shorts so that he could go to the basement to search the laundry for the pair that he really wanted to wear.Well, the shorts that were CLEAN and used only for the jaunt to the basement currently reside in a lump on the bedroom floor adjacent to the hamper. Does that mean their dirty already?

Back to nesting.

[My God this is going to take forever at this rate. CON-CEN-TRATE Sam Concentrate.]

Nesting.

This morning it hits me like a huge tsunami wave. Baby. Here. Less. Than. A. Week. SO MUCH TO DO.

[Let's PRAY it's less then a week, M'kay?]

After getting a pedicure and getting my nails done I came home and began cleaning like a mad woman.

I may or may not have even cleaned up my husband’s tools in the basement.

Fo R’il. (aka For. Real.)

Monday was our bedroom - baseboards, door frames, mirrors, ceiling fan, window sills, dust - OH. THE. DUST! I’ve been vacuuming just about daily and even cleaned the kitchen floor.

I wish I had this kinda ambition all the time. Dude, I could have the cleanest house around - even while living with the dirtiest man E-VAH!

Now I just wish there was a way to easily evict a tenant that just won’t leave.

[Yes, I'm talking about the bebe in mah belly.]

My paternal (step)grandmother (my father’s biological mother died when he was 5 years old) was a kindergarten teacher for years. Whenever we would visit them, she would have all these great ideas of things we could do to pass the time - arts and crafts, garage sales, games, etc. We had so much fun when we were little.

I remember that she’s always had fun knitted sweaters - you know the ones - Christmas themed with trees, snow, Santa - the works. I think she had them for just about every season, even ones that we’re seasonal but dawned puppies and landscapes. Very much a teacher sweater.

That’s not my headless grandmother

She loved those sweaters: I think she may still have a closet full.

I think they’re hideous, horrible, and tacky!

Christmas of 1996, I was 15. We were at my grandparents house for the Christmas holidays and just finished up dinner. We were gathering in the living room, as we did every year, to open presents. Everyone was commenting on my grandma’s sweater because it was - you guessed it! - a flashy, hideous Christmas sweater.

At 15, I was less then eager to open gifts with family. I wanted to hide in the basement and watch MuchMusic (Yankees read: MTV); I wanted to be away from the adults, but had to endure the oooohhhs! and awwwwwwes! of all the gift giving.

My turn.

From Grandma and Grandpa.

I rip off the paper and see the box.

I could see a smile creep across my grandma’s face as I peered at the box.

Tabi International.

Tabi is one of those stores who sell those God awful sweaters.

I hold my breath.

I can feel my heart racing and my insides tossing and turning as I pull out this monstrosity of a sweater.

Red, with black trim. White snowflakes scatter all over.

Big. Black. Scottie. Dog.

Dead centre. Like a bullseye.

Underneath it is a white collared dress shirt.

I held the sweater up high in front of my face, blocking my grandmother’s view so she wasn’t able to see the absolute horror on my face which I tried valiantly to conceal.

I think I may have even barfed in my mouth a little.

Upon arriving home, I shoved that box far into the deep, dark depths of the dust bunny world under my bed.

Never to be seen by another human being. Ever. Again.

******

Sure, sure… it’s the thought that counts. But not today! Tell us about the Good, the Bad and the downright Hideous in today’s PBN Blog Blast - “Gifts Gone Right, Gifts Gone Wrong” - sponsored by GetinHerHead.com. You could win a $250 gift certificate to your favorite spa - where you can remember the good gifts fondly (and forget about the bad ones) while you’re being pampered!

My maternal grandparents arrived in Canada from Hungry, but not together. My grandpa arrived in Canada when he was 12 years old, my grandma a short while after. They did not know each other prior to moving here.

The story I’ve been told, of their first meeting, sounds as though it derived from a movie script.

Young man meets a lady friend and falls head over heels.

Young man persues young lady incessantly.

Young lady refuses every offer until she is overwhelmed by the constant bombardment of flowers, visits and promises of a beautiful future.

Young lady agrees to a date.

A date that quickly turns into a 44 year marriage.

Head over heels in love.

Growing up, we were very close to my maternal grandparents - both geographically and physically. I love those people like no other.

There’s just something about Hungarian heritage. It’s so passionate. Passionate for just about anything from love and marriage to their pets and vegetable gardens.

God, I remember how much my grandpa loved his vegetable garden. He would be out there for hours weeding, watering and shooing away the neighbourhood cat, as he cursed it in Hungarian, for using it as a litter box.

His cat, Chester, was his best friend. Every evening Chester and Grandpa would sit in the basement watching television. Chester on his lap purring loudly as my grandpa stuffed chewing tobacco into the centre of a rolled up stick of Juicy Fruit gum. They were a pair.

While they sat in the basement the women - being my mom, aunts and grandma - would sit in the kitchen drinking cup after cup of coffee, talking about everything adult while my brother and I would watch TV in the den, and fight.

I remember my poor old grandma racing around the corner to break up a fight: yelling to get our attention. I don’t think we’ve ever concluded a fight so fast. There’s something about getting in trouble from a grandparent that’s almost sacrilegious.

Sometimes one of us would be sent downstairs to sit with grandpa. Which I always loved.

I would sit beside him, watching intently as he continued rolling the stick of Juicy Fruit delicately around the chewing tobacco. I would ask question after question about what he was doing, why he was doing it, what did it taste like… you know, kid questions.

It was always a treat when grandpa would share his Juicy Fruit, and to this day, I can’t eat it without thinking of him.

I miss those days.

My grandpa passed away 11 days before his 72 birthday in 1998. I had just turned 17. Stomach cancer had finally taken it’s toll - taking my beloved grandpa from us too early.

My family hasn’t been the same since his death.

He was the glue that held us all together. He was the family rock. The stability we all needed.

Now that’s gone.

And so is that part of my family.

Since his death a lot of heartache was doled out between my mother and her sisters. Accusations flew, hatred and evil words were spewed - words that can never be taken back. My beloved grandma stuck in the middle - not strong enough to make them work it out.

Not like Grandpa.

He’s not here to sit his girls down and make them work it out.

He always said: “Family is the most important thing in our lives.”

Too bad that didn’t hold true after he left.

Before he passed, Grandpa asked that Grandma keep her independence. He didn’t want her to move in with any of the girls, but to remain happy and on her own.

After much coaxing, Grandma moved in with her eldest daughter two years after his passing.

That was eight years ago.

I have seen my wonderful, loving and passionate Grandma three times since then.

Three times.

(There are many reasons why it’s only been three times.)

She’s met her great-grandson, Carter, two of those times.

She doesn’t even know we’re expecting another.

I am so torn about the whole situation.

I miss my grandmother immensely.

We, my grandma and I, are caught in the middle.

But there is so much tension and so many hard feelings involved.

Tension and hard feelings that are not mine, nor hers.

How do we move past their squabbling and guilt ridden comments to have a relationship again? (Rhetorically of course.)

Before it’s too late and I lose her too.

Very early on in our relationship, talk of children ensued. I just turned 19 when we began dating, I was in college and children were the last thing on my mind. In fact, I think all I was worried about at that time was which bar we would be going to that night.

Mike has always been very keen on having children, as was I; but not yet. I wanted to finish school, get a job - which hopefully would become a career - and maybe settle down a little more. He didn’t pressure nor did he insist, but there would be hints and suggestions along the way making me realize that he was quite serious - surprisingly for someone who was just 4 years my senior and very much a partier too.

After 4 years of living together, the conversations came more frequently even though he never once made an official request to start trying for children, though, there was plenty of practice time occurring *nudge, nudge, hint, hint* I knew at that point things were only going to progress.

I suggested getting a dog.

Buy myself some time, you know.

And so our beloved pit bull, Briggs, entered the picture. She was just the companion Mike needed and the distraction I was looking for. Though, I love her to death, I digress. I had ulterior motives. She would be the “child” that Mike so craved and she would be my Savior from bearing children at that point in my life.

A couple years passed, Briggs’ newness diminished and rearing children once again reared it ugly head.

Though, it wasn’t so ugly anymore.

At 25 I had a stable and comfortable position in the workforce, we had been together for 6 years and engaged for 5 of those.

And I’d already played The Dog card.

Fast forward nine - okay eleven if you include the months that were unsuccessful - months and Carter arrives.

I’ve always been comfortable with children and babies so I really didn’t think I had that much to learn. I could hold my own with diaper changes, dressing, handling, etc.

One thing that threw me off that no one explained?

The crying.

Mine. Not his.

I would cry at the drop of a hat. Literally.

Mike gaving me a hug.
Commercials.

Driving in the car.

Someone asking me how I was doing.

Mike leaving for work.

Carter sleeping in his bassinet.

The night time feedings.

The first projectile vomit.

My sore boobs.

Someone saying how cute my baby was.

Tears would weld in my eyes or, if I was home - alone, I would full on bawl my eyes out.

I’m a crier by nature. I cry when I’m happy, laughing, sad, mad - you name it I cry… but I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much in my life expect when Milli Vanilli was found out to be fake as I did in those first few weeks of parenthood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a lot about motherhood you wish you’d known before becoming a mom. Write about it anytime between now and Sunday, then send a link to your post to PBN. It’s this week’s Blog Blast, sponsored by Discovery Health and their new series “Deliver Me”.