(**editor's note: this entry was started on Friday morning. Ultimately, it was finished on Sunday night.)

As I sit and type this, I am home alone right now.

As in, no one else is here.

The silence is deafening. And I'm not quite sure what to do with myself.

Brian took today off of work since he is flying out tonight for a bachelor party in New Orleans. He and the Bear headed off to baby gymnastics, since he had never been, leaving me home to sit and think. And listen to my quiet house.

There is no breathing on the monitor. No one shaking toys or rattles or babbling on the rug. There is no sound at all, except the hum of the computer.

I'll admit, I'm a little creeped out. After all, I haven't had the house to myself since, well, probably the bed rest days. Which seriously feel like several lifetimes ago. Gosh, the days when I just laid on the couch, eating brownies and blogging about the Bachelor. I guess you could say I still do that now (although I'm trying to cut out the brownies), it's just squished in between diapering, feeding, playing, and loving on a little Bear. And a really great husband.

I admit, I'm going to miss this house. In that typical fashion where you suddenly love the thing that you most detested because you are leaving it for something bigger and better, I've found myself getting a little sentimental. I mean, this is the house that we came home to the night Brian proposed. It was my birthday, and in between calling friends and family to share the good news, I remember opening my Kitchen-Aid mixer that my grandma had sent. Emma, curious as ever, stretched the length of the box and darn near tried to crawl in.

My grandma died in January 2007. Emma passed away in 2009. I miss them both terribly.

Our kitchen was home to my numerous protein shakes consumed before our wedding. (now, it mainly houses ginger cookies and a bottle or two of good red wine).  Our master bathroom was the place where I first saw two pink lines - and then promptly ran into the bed room to inspect the test in the sunlight. Then I took a picture of it and analyzed it on the digital camera. Then I cried. And then I called Brian.

(who, of course, did not answer his phone).

And if you walked a little further down the hallway, you'd find the room that Scotty lives in. If walls could talk.  Probably my most salient memory of that room is the night we came home from the NICU right after he was hospitalized -- it was completely silent. And I remember wanting to tear my hair out. I was so exhausted on the way home that I had fallen asleep in the car (it was after 2am when we finally got home) and instead of crashing, my brain started racing when I walked into the nursery that night. The sheer terror of everything we had experienced over the last 12 hours came slamming into my conscious, and the reality of our situation hit me. We could lose the Bear.

Instead of pulling my hair out, I did the next best thing: I deconstructed one of the floral arrangements we had been sent. (I'm fidgety, I know). I took a single white rose out of the bouquet and laid it on the table near the glider. Over the next four days, it slowly dried but never lost its original shape. When little Scotty finally joined us at home again, I tucked the rose in his memory box as a reminder to myself to never, ever, ever take anything for granted. Ever.

And finally, the last room in the hall on the right is our guest bedroom. This room has welcomed my parents, my sister and her husband, friends from all over the country, and my personal favorite, my friend Jen (mom to Rowan) who, while normally mild mannered, managed to yak twice in one rather raucous Vegas weekend as a result of alcohol consumption.  I remember her vomiting in the toilet saying, "I think I'm pregnant!" while I shook my head and said, "No, Jen, you just drank too much."

(she is going to kill me for publicly sharing this story on the interwebs. Sorry, Jenna.) 

So while the house sits quietly and I reflect, I can't help but wonder what the new house will bring...Scotty becoming mobile, that's a given. Maybe baby #2? (after we've passed the sandwich rule, of course. And for new readers, the sandwich rule is "we can have another baby when the current baby is able to accurately make himself a sandwich. And perhaps one for me as well.") Will our three-car garage ever actually hold three cars? (Brian is insistent that Scotty will have a car when he turns 16; I'm old-school and think he should wait. Until he's 31.) I'm envisioning a little vegetable garden in the backyard, maybe a swing set, but above all, a family that is happy and ready to settle in for the long haul.

And now, our dramatic conclusion...

Step 40: Realize that it is YOU that is holding up the title company from being able to record the deed since you never submitted your receipt from the HOA package you bought back in February.

(if that last sentence makes no sense to you, don't worry, it doesnt' make any sense to me, either. I don't know what an HOA package is but I do know I followed the steps online to purchase one and it cost me $204.)

Step 41:  After scouring your email for three hours (during an exceptionally long nap, thankfully), give up and contact the title company, ready to admit defeat. Rejoice when they accept the initial email as proof of payment.

And finally...

Step 42:  Accept a call from your realtor saying the deed has been recorded and she is standing on your NEW FRONT PORCH with the keys to your NEW HOME!!!!!!!

Do a happy dance, kiss your baby, kiss your husband, call your parents, and PICK UP THE DAMN KEYS!

HOORAY!

PS - And not a moment too soon, either. In "I-can't-make-this-sh*t-up" news, our delinquent, marijuana smoking neighbors just purchased a DRUM SET. If those losers decide to start banging on it during naptime, I'm going to go over there and snap their drumsticks. (I told Brian this and he promptly buried his face in his hands). Don't mess with naptime!

I'm feeling pretty good these days. I accurately predicted 'The Hurt Locker' would win big last night. (In fact, I turned to Brian during the opening number of the Oscars and said, "I predict the Hurt Locker is going to win big tonight." Seriously. Ask Brian.) I also accurately picked the right house on 'House Hunters International' (#3, in case you are curious) AND guessed what Jesse James would be wearing to the Oscars. (Black tux, black shirt).

My psychic abilities seem to be churning in overdrive for all things pop-culture, but sadly, in our personal life, I'm not sure where I stand. Or, I should say, where the new house stands. I'm not going to get into all the details, but let's just say that receiving a phone call from your lender five days after closing saying the finances are not stable is never a good thing. Waiting on the HOA liens has actually turned into a bit of a silver lining, since if we end up losing the house, at least this still gives us an avenue to try to recoup some of our earnest money.

I'm trying not to think about the house stuff, since I just get more and more sad. I just can't believe we're in this position. It's ironic and ridiculous. Per the Whippersnapper, "You [Brian and I] are paying for the all of the mistakes of the people who have come before you." She is, of course, referring to all of the people who qualified for mortgages they couldn't afford, bought houses they couldn't afford, and ultimately were foreclosed on said houses. Banks and lenders are just so hesitant to loan money. Which, as I said earlier, is ridiculous. My credit score is 832. Brian's is also in the 800s. We have no debt other than our current mortgage and his student loans. But yet, our financing fell through five days after closing. And that really sucks.

So we just sit and wait. We should hear today if there are other options, but I'm half tempted to just throw in the towel on this one. The only thing holding me back is the fear that we will have to start this whole process over again, which puts us STILL at two to three months. Did I mention the guy across the street just installed a security door on his front door? Please, get us out of this neighborhood.

Keep your fingers crossed. In the meantime, I will be distracting myself with really bad reality TV, meaning...Jason's and Molly's wedding! And if my psychic abilities are telling me anything, it's this: bring an umbrella. Rain looks likely. :-)

I think we might need an emergency c-section to bring this house into the world...with forceps...and the vacuum. Please prepare the OR, stat!

Good lord, why is nothing ever simple??? I swear, Tuesday I was freaking out because we were getting ready to close and it was too soon for me. Now it is Friday and we might not even get the house. The ups and downs of the real estate market...I swear, I thought working with suicidal people was stressful. It is nothing compared to the trials of being a realtor/lender. Sheesh.

So, things were going well until yesterday, when our poor little house started experiencing some decels. (for those of you who have had a baby recently, this makes sense. For those of you who haven't, just bear with me). Strap on the O2 mask and start breathing deeply...the appraisal came back too low. My first (naive) thought was, "Great! We get the house for less money!" Except after a conversation with the Whippersnapper, she informed me the sellers would not go that low, and also, we would not qualify for a mortgage at the current purchase price (since the appraised value of the home is less. No bank would agree to this.) So our only option was to come out of pocket $20K, pay that to the seller, in addition to the down payment, closing costs, etc.

In other words...no. There is no way we were going to pay any money out of pocket AND be underwater in the home, right from the start.

I really thought all was lost. If we were to cancel the deal, not only would be out about $1,000 (for the home inspection and appraisal), we ran the risk of losing our earnest money ($5K) AND having to start this miserable process all over again. Boom, crash.

But in the 11th hour, the Whippersnapper saved (and is currently saving) the day. She just called and is 1.) contesting the appraisal, 2.) writing a rebuttal to the appraisal, 3.) will be requesting a field review in the event the rebuttal doesn't work, and 4.) has spoken with the seller's agent who agreed that his clients want to sell the house and are willing to drop the price, but not drop it $20K (what the appraisal came back at.) So, his suggestion was to pay for another appraisal (eek) through a lender the sellers' really trust, and then whatever that came back at, they would sell it to us for that price (again, as long as it was not too low).

Are you with me on this? Very complicated, I know.  She had to explain this to me about twelve times, and the only reason I'm writing it out right now is to make sure I have it clear in my mind. The bottom line, per the Whippersnapper: we will actually be paying less for the house than what we originally thought, if the whole deal doesn't fall through. Hooray! That is music to my ears. The bad news: all of this could take another few weeks to sort out. The worst news: it might completely implode all together.

But we're not even going to think about the worst case scenario. (WSC).

I have to give props to the Whippersnapper, who is absolutely living up to her nickname. She was so concerned about extending the due diligence period (and making sure we didn't lose our earnest money) that she came over to our house last night at 8:30pm, with paperwork in hand, to make sure she could file it first thing this morning. I offered her dinner, but she declined (I don't think she eats. Or sleeps.  She just works. And works, and works). Seriously, that is quality service.

And, ironically, during the ten minutes she was actually in our home, she managed to get ticketed by our HOA. (there is no street parking allowed, and she had parked in front of our house.) I think this is hysterical; I mean, the meth deal that went down earlier in the day went unpunished, but God forbid she park in front of our house for literally ten minutes. We all laughed and shredded the ticket. Did I mention how happy I will be to leave this neighborhood?

The weather here in Vegas was just terrible today. It was about 45 degrees and rainy. People actually cancel appointments when it rains. It's like the Midwestern equivalent of an ice storm. I guess when you live in the desert, anything that falls from the sky is slightly disturbing.

Two scary events happened today...

First, my breast pump died! I cannot tell you how traumatic this was. I had an inkling that his days were numbered but the actual end was unexpected and rather tragic. I mean, Mr. Medela Lactina has been with me through a lot. Scotty's ambulance ride. Scotty's second homecoming. My re-lactation. DairyGate. I have probably spent more time with this pump than my own husband.

Medela Lactina had been wheezing for about a week now, and after a quick review of systems, my (very basic) diagnostic test came back positive for motor failure. The little guy managed to eek it out through my early morning pump (usually a 30+ minute adventure) but by noon, he had joined the other good breast pumps in the sky. I packed Scotty in the warmest outfit I could manage (onesie, pants, sock, sweater, and I installed his 'Bundle Me' in his car seat) and headed out to the lactation center. Thankfully, the women at the front desk didn't ask too many questions (like, how often did you use this? I would have had to reply, "At least six times a day for the past four months, usually averaging 20-30 minutes per pump. That comes out to approximately 15,725 minutes of use.  Yes, I used the beejesus out of your pump. And thank you for giving this to me for free" -- which, inexplicably, they 'scholarship-ed' us the pump so we haven't paid a dime -- "as I now return it to you, deader than a doornail. Sorry about that.") 

I was given a replacement pump and quickly hightailed it out of the center before they could plug the old guy back in. The less questions, the better.

(In my defense, I did try to get Scotty back on the boob...it just never worked. I'm sure these pumps are not made for in the insane amount of use I have put them through, but what's a girl to do? Scotty's gotta eat.)

And so, R.I.P., Medela Lactina Serial Number 309485. You will be missed. XOXO.

And the second scary thing to happen today...

Just as I was preparing to pump (honest! My whole life really does revolve around pumping), there was a knock at the door. Now, many of you would probably think, "Hmm. There have been some shady folks in Kim's life lately. Weird people in the neighborhood. You would think she would learn her lesson and not answer the door."  You would think.

But I swear, I was a cat in another lifetime, and yes, we all know how it ended after that bout with curiosity. Thankfully, I hadn't started pumping yet and when I looked through the peephole, I was practically blinded by the green and gold figure standing on the porch. Yes, GanstaBoy was back. The Packers were on Monday night and GanstaBoy was wearing his colors. How could I forget?

He, again, asked if Brian was home. At least this time I didn't have to lie - Brian was still at work. (he was taping the game, but I casually omitted that fact.) GanstaBoy then proceeded to tell me about his job ("It's going great!"), his wife ("Well, we're not married yet, but I still call her my wife." I snorted and told him that once you're married, it's not going to feel nearly so clever), and the Packers' season. He still looked a little too eager for my liking (no, there is NO chance I will turn on football if Brian is not in the home, and there is NO CHANCE IN HELL I will invite GanstaBoy in if Brian is not home) so I rather bluntly told him that DirecTV is offering all kinds of holiday specials and he should look into. I have no idea if that is even true, but it was worth a shot. He got the hint (?) and left.

I'm off to curl up on the couch and watch a tape-delayed Packer game (yaaaaay. Not really). This storm is moving east, so it looks like it will touch all of us. Be sure to stay warm!

I'm still thinking about GanstaBoy.

Seriously, we have lived in this neighborhood for over five years. Five years. At no point have any of our neighbors been even remotely friendly to us (and that is totally fine with me...I am not friendly to them. I have very little 'good neighbor' in me.) We didn't even know their names until recently. There is a very, very good chance that they were even responsible for vandalizing our home several years ago, costing us upwards of $2,000 to repair/replace what they destroyed.

And now, we are just supposed to invite GanstaBoy into our home like nothing ever happened? I mean, aside from the fact that he might be potentially violent, is he not savvy enough to know that we know that he is blatantly using us? I mean, the DirectTV dish went up a month ago and in that month, they have come over several times. Including once to ask Brian for legal advice. HAVE YOU NO BOUNDARIES, my neighbors? You ignore us for years and then the minute we have something to offer, you are all over it like white on rice.

At least do the dance. At least pretend to want to be friendly before you drop the hammer of just watching football at our house. Offer baked goods, comment on the baby when you see us walking, give us something. Not because it's sincere (or it means anything to us), but at least you are following some of the dance steps of socially appropriate behavior. Don't just drop in on us all at once, smiling and acting friendly. Follow the steps and then try to use us. Please. I will give you points for decorum.

The only reason I haven't told GanstaBoy that he is not welcome in our home is that I'm afraid he's going to kill me. Or rob us, at the very least. I think I've seen one too many movies and worked with one too many criminals, because my mind just races with paranoid thoughts whenever they look in our direction. Not to mention, I am very bad at these kinds of interactions, and if I were to tell GanstaBoy to stop coming over, it would likely end up with a full-on gang war breaking out. Brian is so much more diplomatic.

I don't know how to handle this...the only thing I can think of is to take a page from Larry David's playbook and try to annoy the hell out of him when he does come over. Yelling at Brian to do more chores, dumping laundry on the couch loudly, perhaps pumping (or talking about breast feeding) in his presence. Maybe I should bring up CatheterGate? Or PMS? I'm trying to think of the most guy-repellent conversation topics.

My only other option is to make sure Brian's car is in the garage, and then just blatantly lie to the guy. No, Brian is not home. And yes, you can come in, but could you first empty the dishwasher and change a few lightbulbs?

We need to move. Like, now.

So this morning, I was just about to run upstairs to pump when there was a knock at the door.

Fearing who it might be, I gave Brian the look of death before throwing open the door.

"Hi, GanstaBoy. How are you?"

He looked at me hopefully. "Is Brian home?" he asked, as though I am Brian's mother.

I wanted to tell him that Brian couldn't come out and play since he didnt' clean his room, but instead, I just grimaced slightly and said, "Um...[stalling]...yes?"

He grinned at me. That's when I noticed he was carrying a plastic Wal-Mart bag full of Miller Lites. He started to move towards me when I put my hand out.

"Were you planning to come in? Because you can't. I'm sorry. The baby is sick." Ugh, I just cursed myself by lying, but I didn't want this guy sitting on my recently-Febreezed couch, throwing back cold ones and kicking his feet up on our ottoman.

Brian then appeared with the alleged sick baby, and GanstaBoy was instantly contrite. He said he understood and it's not a problem; we, obviously, need to take care of the baby without company or other germs. Jim, our friend who is over most Sundays for the games, was thankfully in Ohio this weekend, so our lie looked more tangible. He left soon thereafter, but it sounded like he was planning to come back next week. He even dropped the line, "Oh, I just wanted to watch the game. Since I can't watch it at my house. You know, the game. I wanted to watch the game."

We get it, dude.  I can't believe it...I hate to go all Larry David on this guy, but seriously, WTF? I mean, are you so rude to think that we are willingly going to welcome you into our home every Sunday to watch football, just because you are a Packer fan? Brian said that he thought it was nice that he brought beer, to which I replied, "Did you really expect him to share it?"

How do you school a recently-turned 21 year old on the nuances of social etiquette? That stopping over at someone's house uncalled and unexpectedly (and repeatedly) is about as rude as it gets. Does he do this to other people? Just knock and expect to be hosted? There are RULES about this kind of thing, and he is breaking all of them. Don't come over without an invite. Don't come over empty-handed (or with stuff you don't plan to share). Don't treat me like my husband's mother. Don't come over to watch what we are paying for and bring nothing in return. Even the pilgrims and the indians had a mutually beneficially agreement. GanstaBoy needs to get with the program.

Brian, who is clearly a nicer, better person than I, said that he doesn't have a problem with GanstaBoy coming over to watch the games, as long as it's just not the two of us (i.e. we have other friends over, too). I told him that, like roaches, once you invite him in, he is never going to leave. Not to mention, when I make lunch, do I have to make him a sandwich? Do I have to offer him a soda? At what point did I become the neighborhood mom that makes cookies for the other grubby little kids on the block? I expected this to happen in about five years with Scotty, not with Brian.

I blame Brian and DirectTV for this.

So the formula v. breast milk debate continues in our household...

We are on Day 4 of the GERD challenge. We started Scotty on formula (the RS Sensitive one, can't remember the full name) on Saturday afternoon. Like the chow puppy he is, he gulped it down happily. And then Brian and I waited for the wailing...and then...nothing. We had a drowsy, happy baby on our hands. Silence is truly golden.

And this has continued to present day. We've had a few bumps in the road - one 2am cryfest that was more attributed to me than the little pork chop (inadequate swaddle + overtired little baby = 90 minutes of hysterics). But for the most part, Scotty is doing really well on the formula, making me think he does not have GERD.

Also, my diet is going well. I am eating like a grizzly bear - fruits, nuts and meat. I told my mom this and she suggested I dig in the backyard for some grub worms. If you see me leaning over a shallow stream, fishing salmon out wtih my insanely-long post-partum nails, please call the local mental hospital.

I added wheat back in, mainly b/c I was going crazy without bread. I mean, it's like I was attempting some version of the Atkins/South Beach/Perricone diet all at the same diet, WHILE lactating. I can only handle so much, people. And bread is delicious.

Scotty has had two bottles of breast milk (brewed yesterday around 3pm) and so far, so good. He is sleeping soundly right now and I hope our good fortune continues. Now I just need to figure out what is (are?) the true culprits - caffeine, alcohol, all of those veggies, citrus fruits, and dairy. My money is on dairy, to be honest - everything I've read (minus the blood in the stools) seems to point to a slight lactose-intolerance. Brian is slightly lactose-intolerant (amazing, considering the amount of cheese he eats) so I'm blaming him for this.

And in other (weird) news, Sunday afternoon was quite interesting. After my Target run, we were all sitting around watching football when there was a knock at the door. Everyone looked at each other (thinking the same thing: It was She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named), when I decided to be bold and answer it. Turns out, it was Ganster Boy from two houses down. (Remember, the drug dealers are next to us - aka Tent City - the gangsters are the house next to them, and the drug users are across the street). GangstaBoy was dressed head-to-toe in Green Bay Packer gear and looked rather eager to see me. Well, see Brian. Turns out, they had exchanged pleasantries while wearing their respective green and gold wear.

And now GangstaBoy wanted to talk to Brian. They chatted for a few moments at the door, and then next thing I know, Brian invited him inside and offered him a beer. Okay, this was getting interesting.

What lead him to our house? The new Direct TV satellite, festooned on our back wall. Thank you, my husband. Like a jackal smelling a fresh kill, GangstaBoy was lured to our home by the idea of Direct TV. He woefully told Brian how he had to watch the Packer game on his computer, and looked more than happy to plop down and watch more football on our 54' LED flat screen.  Brian is like the Pied Piper of Direct TV.

He was a virtual fountain of information, however. He told us he hates the drug dealers and feels as though they are doing bad things (especially with the Tent City). He said that the middle boy (aged 16) isn't even at home - "He's in some camp, somewhere." I about choked. Say, my former job? Holy crap, that's lovely. He also told us that they will not be in the house for longer than 3-4 months (pleasepleaseplease) since the mom has another job. Maybe that's why they are saving all of the boxes on the side of their house?

GangstaBoy was also kind enough to tell us about his daughter, aged 2. He proudly told us he just celebrated his 21st birthday last week and is trying to get a job at the Bellagio. He also likes to counsel the drug dealers on their life choices, exclaiming, "I don't do none of that sh*t anymore...now, I just drink and smoke, that's all." Great...

After Scotty was done with his bottle, he started to fuss a little. GangstaBoy looks over at me and says, "I think he needs to be burped." I ignored him. He says again, thinking that I didn't hear him, "Um, Kim, you need to burp him." I almost lost it (I was carb-less at this point, too, making me especially cranky) and shouted something about how I am TEN YEARS OLDER than he is but managed a quiet, "We think he might have GERD so we are trying to prevent spit-up by giving him more time to digest his food before he burps, so thank you, but we're fine." Pushy little gangsta. He's going to offer me advice on raising my child? I thought I had seen it all...

He literally sat in our house for about an hour, with all the rest of us exchanging glances like, "Um...how are we going to get him out of here?" I also didn't buy the idea that he was just stopping over for a freindly visit - my paranoia is so strong that I assumed he was casing the joint to figure out what to steal when the whole gang breaks in. 

I then had the inspired idea to change Scotty's diaper...even though it didn't need to be changed. Viola. In three minutes, we had a screaming baby on our hands, and one flustered GangstaBoy making a break for the door. He claimed he was taking a smoke break but never returned. Scotty: 1, GangstaBoy, 0.

I thought that was the end of our neighborly-ness until last night when Brian got home from work. I heard him pull in but then he didn't come inside. I finally walked outside with the baby to find him talking to both GangstaBoy AND DrugDealer. Turns out GangstaBoy told DrugDealer that Brian is a lawyer, and DrugDealer wanted to talk to Brian about a ticket he got regarding some stuff he shop-lifted. He needed legal counsel.

Fan-freakin-tastic.

We need to move. Now.

I did it. I fired our pediatrician.

I feel much better. Brian and I aren't sure what we will do next - if a complaint to the medical board is warranted, or even a possible law suit - but I am glad the office will no longer be a part of our - or Scotty's - life. The original ped (not the one who so grievous erred) has been treating us like "Oh, everything's fine! Let's put this little snafu behind us, shall we?" and it really bugged  me. I wanted to tell her (and I did, at our last appointment - oh, me and my mouth) - that 1.) what happened was a REALLY BIG FREAKING DEAL and 2.) we have lost trust in her and her collegues. And do NOT minimize our situation in order to make yourself feel better. She also couldn't guarantee me that the other doctor would never see Scotty again. In her words, "I need to have a life, too." I understand that (and as a former practitioner who had to deal with emergency calls from patients, I'm well aware of how this works), but as I told her, "You are only as strong as your weakest member."

And so, the interviewing began. We found a lovely woman with a solo practice who assured me she never takes vacations. We are meeting with her today for Scotty's one month check-up.  I feel the need to cram in as much tummy time between now and 2:30 as possible, almost like in college when you sat there and read the whole text book in anticipation of the quiz in class. Nothing like procrastination. I'm so glad I'm passing on my bad habits to my son.

And in other news...

I am pumping almost 7-8oz at night! This is very exciting. My production is down during the day (about 4-5oz per pump) but really skyrockets at nighttime. Scotty, however, is an eating machine (his nicknames vary from Chumley, Pork Chop, Piglet to Chow Puppy) and has taken to eating four ounces every two hours. Where is he putting this food? I'm planning to work up his chart for the new ped today to make sure he is developing appropriately. Does this child have a wooden leg? Seriously.

I am only 8 pounds above my pre-pregnancy weight. This is insane. I've fought a long, hard battle against my body (and weight) the majority of my life, and I'm hoping this is perhaps my body's way of saying, "Sorry, Kim...we'll be nicer to you in the future." A silver lining to the past month? Either way, I'll take it. And, just in case you are curious, it's not like I was skinny pre-pregnancy. I was fattening myself up in anticipatino of pregnancy ("Onion rings? Sure! That's sounds great!") so I really have about 20 more pounds to lose to fit into my favorite pair of jeans. Body, did you hear me? Start metabolozing.

And finally, in non-baby news, our neighbors (yes, those neighbors) are right back up to their old tricks. Not only have they piled about 60 cardboard boxes on the side of their house (right in front of our window), but they have set up "Tent City" in their backyard. There are two huge tents amid the cat litter, potting soil bags, and flattened cardboard boxes. There is even a fire pit carved into the rocks.   It's like we're living next to a homeless city. I called the Fire Marshall yesterday but they seemed wholly unconcerned. Great. Because our house burning down will just the cherry on top of an otherwise stellar month.