It's a Forty Clorox Wipes Kind of Day

So, it's summer and I'm hot. Only not in the way that Jennifer Aniston or Ryan Gosling is hot. I'm currently the opposite of that kind of hot. Sadly, I'm just the old-fashioned, livin'-in-the-deep-south, big humid hair hot. Which means I'm eating a lot of popsicles and devising ways/excuses to stay inside air conditioned buildings at all times.

I feel the need to talk about what it's like to be seven months pregnant in the Deep South in the summer while pottytraining a three-year old. Does this sound like the beginning of a horror movie to you? If so, you might should visit another blog at the moment. But come back later when I have a sweet-smelling newborn and Starbucks is offering their fall-themed lattes (i.e. caramel apple, pumpkin spice, etc.).

I underestimated how different being pregnant the second time around would be. I forgot about one's center of gravity being compromised while pregnant until I fell on my rear end at Chic fil a this week whilst trying to tie my child's Converse sneakers. At this stage of the game, I'm not even phased by that sort of indignity. I mean, let's get real. I'm sporting maternity shorts these days and once you cross that line, there's really no point in being embarrassed by anything anymore.

My first babe was born in the last week of fall, so I was rocking my dark wash jeans and wearing colorful cardigans with serious panache while drinking tea, reading books, and occasionally taking leisurely walks in the golden air of autumn. It was gloriously awesome.

Fast forward 3.5 years. It's summer. I'm wearing whatever keeps me from overheating and falling over into a nearby bush. My three-year old is consistently showing up sans pants or underwear to inform me that he has compromised his clothing, and the bathroom, while trying to visit the potty. It's not pretty, people. Not at all.

Speaking of potty training. I know you've been wondering if I was ever actually going to do this, considering my child is able to do long division and drive motorized vehicles. I kid. He's only 3.5, but he's obviously old enough to not be wearing diapers. Anyhoo, I'd like to point out that he's my first child. I'll do better with the next one. Right? Basically, the update here is that he's wearing Lightning McQueen underwear like a champ these days. Number 1 is pretty much in the bag, while Number 2 is still a crapshoot (pardon my potty-themed pun). If anybody out there has any suggestions for how to make the magic happen with Number 2, I'd be eternally grateful. And if your idea works, I'll mail you cookies. For reals.

Meanwhile, if I survive the 95 degree, humid hair days of a Georgia summer, we'll be welcoming the new babe into our little family o' three sometime late August/early September. Despite my complaints regarding my resembling someone who swallowed a beach ball, I'm still rather in awe of this part of our family's story. I honestly didn't think I'd have the privilege of carrying another little one around for forty weeks. As hard as it is, it's also so miraculously good. It still feels surreal that we get to be parents for the second time.

Well, that's what's happening in our hot little corner of the world. Not a whole lot and yet enough to make me want to nap for three days straight. Got to go. Someone just walked in pant-less, which is never a good sign. And I just ran out of Clorox wipes. Fail.

Stay classy out there.

It's a good thing the little guy's so cute. 

Otherwise, the poop in the pants thing would seriously cause 

me to consider running away from home.