Home for Christmas...

Not a creature was stirring…

...except for Mia the cat, who in the middle of the night decided to present her Christmas gift to us a bit early.

Until then, we were snoozing soundly-- I, nestled snuggly inside my giant pregnant-person body pillow that wraps all around me; Jeremy, in plaid pajama pants and socks. It was starting off to be a long winter’s nap, which these days is not so easy to come by around here. We were both particularly exhausted, apparently much more than our lively nocturnal pet who could be heard prowling around the house as we drifted off to sleep, dreaming of sugarplums.

At around two o’clock there arose such a clatter...so of course, I sprang sleepily from my bed to see what was the matter, even though I knew that it was Mia prancing and pawing her way playfully from the floor to the mattress as if on a trampoline. [She has been known to find stray bits of dental floss or random shreds of plastic from the hidden corners of our house, and pulls them out at night to fling them to and fro. Often these items end up on our bed, along with Mia, who rolls around with her treasure for endless minutes until we muster the energy to take them away from her and kick her back out into the living room.]

Last night in the dark, I felt around on the covers, my hand searching blindly for a scrap of paper or half of a Q-Tip. Instead, I found only Mia, sprawled out on the bed, eagerly grabbing my hand between her paws as if to say, “hey, now that you’re awake, I have something exciting to show you!”

Reluctantly, I turned on the lamp...and what to my wondering eyes should appear?

Atop our clean ivory quilt, precisely between Jeremy’s side of the bed and mine, lay the remains of a small brown mouse (yes, dressed all in fur from his head to his foot.) Next to him sat Mia – her eyes how they twinkled -- proudly displaying her offering. I let out the littlest scream, almost as a reflex, which woke Jeremy who stared in amazement at the tiny deceased creature laid out before us.

We could only shake our heads and laugh, and applaud our cat for such a monumental accomplishment (she has tried to catch mice before and failed.) While Jeremy scooped our Christmas gift discreetly into the trashcan, I pulled off the bedding and scrubbed my hands in hot soapy water.

This morning we awoke to a new-fallen snow, had oatmeal and coffee, and gave our purring cat a few extra fish-treats in her breakfast bowl.

living with me.

Actually, I have no real reason to feel sad, but today has been one of those days. I can’t seem to escape this moody feeling. Last night we attended the final of five “getting ready for baby” classes at the hospital where we’ll be delivering. The first four classes were all about labor and delivery, so we were overcome with curiosity each time and busy making mental notes about how to breathe. Last night’s class was different. It covered what to expect when you actually bring the baby home. Umm, I kind of had a mini-meltdown as soon as we walked in the door to our house. Having been so focused on the ups and downs of pregnancy, collecting fun things for the baby’s room, and imagining what labor will be like, I am not sure it had hit me, I mean really hit me, that we have to bring the little guy home to live with us at some point.

I think it hit Jeremy too. We both tried to reassure each other that we will figure it out as we go, and that we do have great family and friends to help us out when we need it. I think it just seems overwhelming sometimes…all the nervous anticipation of what’s to come, even though it’s so exciting and we cannot wait to be parents. I am sure every new mom-and-dad-to-be feel this way.

And then there are the holidays---joyous and exhausting at the same time. I spent a lot of last weekend decking the halls of our house (photos to come) while Jeremy was in Germany, and today we decorated our tiny tree after enjoying some bagels with Nutella for breakfast (Jeremy brought me back a big jar of it from Germany and a stack of chocolate bars too, sweet husband.) Currently he is on the roof of our house, repairing a giant sheet of rolled roofing that flew off our dormer during a heavy wind storm and landed in the backyard. I am inside, listening to muffled hammers and nails and trying to shake my blues. (I thought maybe writing would help.)

The sofa is covered with stacks of books that need to be put into storage. We are busy (in theory) moving furniture out of the room that will soon become the nursery, and relocating it to other parts of the house. This also means cleaning out and organizing as we go, which is daunting because my husband has more books than the downtown library, and I seem to have more art supplies and fabric scraps than I could ever possibly make into anything useful.

The hammer is pounding, pounding. I continue to welcome a sound that would normally become annoying after awhile, mostly because it reassures me that he has not fallen off of the roof and onto his head. So far, writing isn’t really doing the trick for me though, so maybe I will try something else to occupy this last hour of daylight while the roof repair continues. Perhaps some more Nutella is just the ticket.