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a (honestly messy) birth story

I spent the morning of my due date crying.

I was so certain Ender James would be born early. Certain because my doctor said it first. Four weeks earlier. That’s when my baby dropped, a process also known as “lightening” (so funny medical community) when the baby literally drops into the mother’s pelvis. Imagine carrying a bowling ball around with your crotch. I couldn’t lift one leg up to step into bed or the car or put my pants on without wincing in pain. I waddled everywhere. And I went from peeing 10 times an hour to peeing every .006 seconds. This is supposed to be a sign that labor is coming soon. Supposed to being the key phrase. I am not a patient person. I am the one who melts a stick of butter in the microwave while trying to soften it, leaving behind pathetic lumps drowning in a greasy pool in the butter dish.

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21 weeks

Today I am officially 21 weeks pregnant which means I’ve been rolling this post around in my head for approximately 17 weeks now.

Three years ago I was sitting in a hospital psychiatric ward scowling at a very nice lady. We were setting goals.

“What would you like to be doing in two years?” She asked.

I really hated that question.

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how many cats do you have?

This question was posed to me by my neighbor a few days ago.

“Four.” I answered, already bracing myself for their reaction. Because there would be a reaction. There is always a reaction.

People don’t really know what to do with that information. I can’t imagine what it’s like for my heroes those crazy cat ladies who have 15 cats. I get disbelief and astonishment. I can only imagine they must get fainting and screaming.

Obviously I love cats, but really, I just love animals. When I was a kid we had 2 horses, 5 goats, 12+ chickens, 2 cats, 1 dog, and 2 rabbits. And I suppose I could probably count the neighbor’s huge turkey flock that occasionally lived in our yard.

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Nothing abnormal there.

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the house on 4th street

I still haven’t been able to drive past our previous house. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to do so (we only moved 5 miles south after all), but I have always struggled with empathy for inanimate objects. Sure, it’d make me sad to see it again, but it would also make the house sad to see me.

I don’t want to make that sweet little house feel sad.

Yeah, I know. Moving on (before I make myself cry).

We did SO much work to that house. We made it our own. And this is how I want to remember it.

the kitchen

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BeforeAfter_Kitchen2

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of jasmine

I’ve tried to write this post more than once. So if you’re reading this now, I either finally succeeded or a cat walked across my keyboard.

This is the sort of post where I let very personal words loose into the wide expanse of the internet. This is the sort of post I’ve debated over a million times. But if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that staying silent never helps. Staying silent doesn’t fight stigmas or stereotypes. It doesn’t build up people who need to know they are not alone. Ernest Hemingway once said, “Write hard and clear about what hurts.” So if these words sound familiar, this post is for you.

Who is Jasmine?

Let me start at the beginning. Continue reading

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a tale of two kitties

In October 2010, Aaron and I moved into a new apartment, and I decided we needed another cat.

After a few months of debates, research, presentations, and pleading, I convinced Aaron to just look at cats at local adoption events. So we drove to Petco and we looked. There were a handful of cats in crates. Most of them were terrified, cowering in the corners. They stared at us with glassy eyes, sometimes timidly approaching to sniff our hands.

Aaron and I escaped as quickly as possible and left in tears.

“We are never going to one of those again.” Aaron said firmly, and I agreed. Continue reading

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the one where I finally post house pictures

September is almost over, and I’m still trying to process that August has come and gone. This summer passed in a blur of cardboard boxes and cat fights and packing tape and U-Haul trucks. We’ve officially owned this house for one month and four days now, and I’m still pinching myself. I love this house. It’s the house I dreamed about. It’s the house I plan on dying in and then haunting for the rest of eternity.

Beware any future owners who dare to paint the trim.

I had grand plans for taking pictures with a nice camera, but I have no idea where the nice camera is. Does it look like I’m completely unpacked? Yes? Exxxxcellent.

I’m not. I just shoved boxes out of the frame.

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the house on Jefferson Street

That perfect house I talked about? We found it. And I can finally, FINALLY tell you about it with only a sliver of terror that I’m jinxing everything.

We close at 2 pm today, but you’ll understand my superstition.

So there was this house. It was way out of our price range, but we looked at it anyways. It was definitely overpriced, but of course, it had everything. “Now remember,” Aaron tried to caution me as we stood in the back lawn and I clasped my hands in rapture, “you can’t get your hopes up.”

Too late. Continue reading

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going…going…gone!

We listed our house on July 2nd and accepted an offer five days later.

Five days. 

“You can’t really count the holiday weekend though.” Said our realtor as we sat in a Starbucks and signed papers. “If we hadn’t listed it right before the 4th, I bet it would have sold in two days.”

Have I mentioned how crazy the housing market is right now?

The offer was good. Really good. And after a dozen or so signatures, it was accepted. We’re closing on August 14th.

Oh, you know, as in less than a month from now. Have we found a new house yet? Nope. Continue reading

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“This is the last time.” -I say for the last time

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This July, Aaron and I will celebrate our 8 year wedding anniversary.

For the first 4 years, we moved almost exactly once a year. Our faithful friends showed up annually to help us pack up the U-Haul and maneuver furniture from a basement to a second floor apartment to a first floor apartment to a third floor apartment all for the price of pizza and beer. We’ve lived through doing dishes in a laundry room sink, waking up to gunshots in the ghetto, a haunted bathroom, and an evil Homeowner’s Association.

And, I will admit, this is mostly my fault.

I am addicted to love moving. I love looking at new places. I love moving in. I love a blank canvas that I get to design and decorate.

Thankfully my husband loves me. Continue reading

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