Hang on to your socks, summertime. I've got me some neon yellow short shorts and I'm ready to use 'em.

Yesterday I embarked on a daunting journey with my napless two-year-old through the maze-like catacombs of—(dramatic pause)—the mall. We set off with the stroller and two granola bars on a nearly insurmountable quest to find me a maternity swimming suit that wouldn't make me weep on the spot.

Up to this point I've had no luck with the search. My sister gave me two of her old ones. They were a no-go. Then I ordered one off of Amazon, despite my reservations for ordering swimming suits online. Did I think it was cute? Heavens no. Like cute is even something I'm aiming for these days. But alas, it came—and—back it went.

So we marched into Motherhood like we owned the place and started making all sorts of demands. Well, not really. But we did kind of own the place, because—in what turned out to be a maternity miracle—I was the only customer in the store at the time. To be the only customer in a Motherhood at the Provo mall is a true rarity, because—correct me if I'm wrong—I'm pretty sure Utah County is the birthing capital of the world. Or something. The last time I was in there the place was filled to the brim with waddling ladies and hormones.

I grabbed one of everything and then it was a race against the toddler's mood to try them on. Clara was being miraculously pleasant, and it certainly helped that they had some building blocks in a bucket by the dressing rooms. Way to be brilliant, Motherhood. I think I tried on five or six suits and felt equally disgusted with all of them. Whoever is behind making maternity suits needs a real talking to. But then I found one that seemed like it might be acceptable to wear without frightening and/or scarring the public. So I whipped out my credit card, bought it, and high-tailed it out of there before I had the chance to second-guess my decision. (But I've been doing it anyway. Like: Did I get the right size? What if I gain 85 more pounds before lil' sis gets here? You know, stuff like that.)

But my favorite part of the story is that today I purchased the most hideous neon yellow shorts from Target to wear over my suit. It requires about six pairs of sunglasses just to look at these lookers. They had other colors, much more preferable too, but the neon yellow ones were the only ones left that had sizes large enough for my pregnant posterior.

So if you want to join us at the Scera this summer, we won't be hard to find—just look for the blinding light of yellow shorts and white skin all aglow. The downside is you'll have to hang out with Clara. The upside is, clearly, that you'll get to observe me strutting my pregnant, neon stuff.

Mmmm-mmmm.

These next 67 days are going to be some good-lookin' ones.
(67 days!)
(Tom keeps a countdown on his phone.)
(67 days, by golly!)


*******
Clara was not napless today. After playing for almost an hour, she finally crashed. Isn't she cute, all tuckered out in her new bed?

A miniature blog post

Lazy afternoons filled with nowhere to be and super long naps (by both of us today—at this point in the pregnancy it's almost more important that I nap than it is for the two year old to...) and gusting winds outside in preparation for some sort of early summer storm just screams tabletop bowling. Am I right?



Don't those mini pins and that mini trophy just make you want to be in love with them? I've mentioned before my love of miniature. It's my goal to have a miniature party someday—and this very set of tabletop bowling, compliments of Tom's mom—whom I can count on to supply me with awesome mini items—will definitely be a highlight.

Other highlights will include recipes from Tiny Treats (also supplied by Tom's mom), miniature party hats, miniature cutlery, and possibly miniature pony rides. Possibly.

Anyway, happy Windsday. Even though I think it's Thursday by now? Who even knows.

A house for hermit crabs

Not to say we're hermits, per se. Or crabs, come to think of it. Only now I know what it feels like to go from a cramped space to something nice and airy. So there's that connection.

As it turns out—there is something worse than moving while pregnant. It's called moving-while-pregnant-and-having-a-miserable-cold. Last Saturday—the day of our move—I woke up with a sore throat (rude) that only picked up steam as the day went on (rude) and by evening it was raging and then the incredible stuffies settled in (rude) and for three days I could hardly breath and was forced to make ridiculous gurgling noises whenever I tried to eat or swallow (rude).

Tom says I got sick because I was too stressed. And he's 100% correct. I was stressed. But, alas. We're here and goodness do we love this place. It's a big improvement—for us. I mean, our kitchen has working space for at least four people at once, I'd say. Four! Maybe if we were feeling real crazy we could even fit five. Five!

Please excuse the clutter. We did just move in, you know. And heaven's to Betsy if I know where to put that lamp. Perhaps it'll stay put. Right there.

Basically, we keep giving ourselves high fives over a choice well-made. This week has just been a basketful of newness. New home, new neighbors, new work schedules, new vacuum after the other one keeled over (again), new ward—new bed! Since everything else was changing around these parts, we figured we'd just throw a new toddler bed into the mix and Clara looooves it with a capital everything. We've never seen this little miss more excited about anything. The night Tom set it up she couldn't even bring herself to eat dinner because she wanted to go to bed so desperately. And periodically each day, the joy of it all will sometimes get the best of her, culminating in an exuberant "New bed!" shout-out. It also results in a whole colony of toys hidden in and around her bed each morning—and who wouldn't be filled with exuberance over that?

I don't have too much to report on the new ward as of yet. Today was our first go-around. The nursery has 22 kids. And that's only Nursery 1. Also, the back of our ward program had addresses for missionaries. You know, in case we want to write them? Could it be that maybe—just maybe—we're in more of a real-life family ward? Time will tell. Our relief society had a heckler—I'll try to develop that in coming weeks. Not a bad heckler—a positive one who'd call out "What a blessing!" or "Just beautiful!" or "We'll keep a prayer in our hearts!" here and there throughout the lesson, and altogether had waaay too much to say. See guys, it's the little things like Sunday hecklers that bring me joy.

Anywhoodles. As soon as things are settled, you're all invited over for a dinner party. So at the rate our "settling" is going, you can expect an invite in about 1-2 years.

Oh yes. And a very over-the-top happy Mother's Day to my mom and Tom's mom and your mom and everyone's mom.

And me. Let's not forget me.

The geriatric circus

This pic was taken Saturday. Miraculously, the place looks even worse now than it did then.

Allow me to share some things I've learned in recent days.
• Packing with a two-year-old kind of makes me feel like I'm in a circus. An elephant in a circus, to be exact.
• Packing while 27 weeks pregnant makes me feel (and walk) like I belong in the geriatric ward. By the end of the evening last night I'm pretty sure a 90-year-old could have whooped me in a foot race.
• Packing, as it turns out, also makes me kind of grumpy.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that unpacking will carry with it better results.

A variety-show-type-thing

From Clara's bunny birthday party

Okay, first things first. Can someone tell me where to find some maternity shorts that will oblige my Mormon ways? (That's basically just a fancy way of asking where to find knee-length shorts.) We haven't even reached the throws of summer and I'm already sticky. (That's also a just a fancy way of saying I'm sweaty. And let's not leave out stinky.) I decree from here on out all our future children will be born in wintry months. Don't get me wrong—I've been loving our weather—but this little fetus o' mine is doing a number on my sweat glands.

Isn't fetus just the grossest word? Even more gross than me talking about sweating? I don't know who came up with the word, but who in their right mind would team up "fetus" with the cute little miracles that grow inside us? I vow to never refer to my unborn child as fetus again. The scientific term should have been snugglius. Or cutelbuns. Or something.

Speaking of which, we haven't been able to think of a name for little sis yet. So far the best we've come up with is Katniss. And I swear it's not because of Hunger Games. It's just that Tom and I have always really, really loved that name. So yeah. It's either that—or Rue. ...Maybe Prim?

And get this. We're moving in a week and a half and I haven't done a single thing as far as preparation goes. I'm wondering if I should be concerned? Actually! I take it back. I've been feverishly figuring out Clara's color scheme for her new room. It's taken so much of my time and energy that I can't really focus on something so trivial as packing. See, here's the skinny. I have an incredibly talented aunt who quilted the most adorable looking quilt I have ever seen for our little miss. I made the executive decision that it should be the focal point for her new room. I'm seriously serious friends—it's the most adorable looking quilt I've ever seen. But matching colors has proven to be much more difficult than I expected. For one, there's about a million fabrics included in the quilt. And for another, baby stores just don't seem to be catering to the types of colors in the quilt. Conundrum! But anywhosits. Today some curtains showed up in my mailbox and they seem like they're going to match. I'm as pleased as pink punch.

Since we're on the subject. Guess who turned the exact age of 2 today?

Wooooo-eee did I pull out all the stops for this one. Pancakes? Foam crowns? Check and check. I've been giddy for this day for weeks. And it turned out as dreamy as I've been dreaming. Clara was just the sweetest she could possibly be today. I think it was because she knows how rarely I make pancakes, so she knew somethin' special was a-brewin.'

Talkin' to dear ol Dad. What with Tom working two jobs and full-time school, we just don't see the guy all too often these days. But luckily he had some time to meet us for lunch at Which Wich—otherwise Clara wouldn't have seen him at all today. 'Tis a normal thing for a couple of days to go by before the two see each other. This is me shedding a cyber tear. And this is me not being sarcastic about that either.

Anyway, I took about a million pictures in total. And as much as I'd like to post them all, it's getting late and I've got a whole assemblage of pillows requesting my company. As the pregnancy progresses, I've been accumulating more and more pillows. I'm up to 4-5 per night, although I'm a ruthless thief and often steal Tom's in the middle of the night. I just can't really describe my love for pillows. You'll either get it or your won't. Moral of the story? Lock up your pillows if I come near. Nobody's are safe.

But I will leave the doting grandmothers and various other family members with one video I took from today. Clara received a doll care kit and she's trying it out for the first time. Please note that my favorite part is the nostril check at 1:50-1:55. She is mimicking me to a T.



Welp, that should do it. But do get back to me on the maternity shorts—if you're in the know.

Nighty-night, blogdom.