Posts Tagged ‘in-laws’

After 3 consecutive weeks of visitors, we’re finally free. Don’t get me wrong. We love family. But this apartment is a little over 1000 square feet, and at one point there were 12 people in it.

To put that into perspective, that’s a population density of approximately 334,540 people per square mile (trust me, I’m an English major), which would make this place about 20x more densely populated than China.

Scene from my apartment last week.

I shouldn’t complain. I don’t have it nearly as bad as some people (check out Conflicted Mean Girl’s run in with her mother-in-law). And somewhere down the line, we’re gonna wish we had Grandma and Grandpa here to babysit again. And Auntie Em to do the dishes. And Uncle Fred to take out the garbage.

But, as of this moment, Leigh Ann and Nathan and I are itching to set this boat a sail just the three of us.

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Who knew it would hard to maintain a blog when (a) your in-laws were sleeping in the living room of your apartment, (b) your wife was 9 months and 6 days pregnant, (c) your apartment was flooded, and (d) the only way you could connect to your hotel’s router was by holding your laptop two feet off the ground while standing in the bathroom?

For my next act, I will try something easier, like . . .

But, seriously, I’m not posting to complain. I’m posting because we just had an hour of contractions, each 4 to 5 minutes apart.

One more hour of this and we’re grabbing our bags.

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You know you’re under some stress when your wife is 5 days past due and that isn’t even the lede.

The lede is that I’m writing this from a hotel room. What happened, you ask? Did I finally get sick of the in-laws? Did I stand on the couch, bang my slipper on the coffee table, and tell everyone that I couldn’t stand another god damned minute of Dancing With the Stars?

Only in my dreams.

No, today, after getting home from our doctor’s appointment (more on that in a moment), Leigh Ann and I discovered that our apartment had flooded. And I don’t mean just clogged sinks and some water in the bathroom. I mean puddles on the floor. In the living room. In the kitchen. In the bedroom. Everywhere. Have a look:

So, courtesy of the Rodeway Inn, we await the carpet cleaner’s 8 AM arrival. I’ll have more to say about this fart stick of an experience (and about the idiot apartment manager who helped caused it), but I’ve already downed a couple Ambien and fear the direction of my prose.

As for our doctor’s appointment today, there was small but steady progress. Leigh Ann is still 1 cm dilated, but the doctor recorded (for the first time) several contractions on the monitor. If you’ll excuse the sports metaphor, I’m calling this a 3 yard gain. It ain’t the kind of play you’ll see on Sportscenter. But if you do it every down, eventually you’ll cross the goal line.

And, man, do I feel like spiking the ball.

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My apologies for the lack of a post earlier. I spent a large chunk of today trying to set up a candlelight dinner for Mrs. DaddysmyMommy. The in-laws start arriving this weekend – there’s more coming on Tuesday – and the clock is ticking on Leigh Ann and I being a twosome.

So, with candles flickering and Bach playing in the background, we drank water out of wine glasses and ate food that I (finally) admitted I brought home from Grand Luxe Café.

It was nice. And sort of romantic. Which is ironic because that’s how we got in this mess in the first place.

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