Partial apartment reveal.

I have a feeling I’m going to jinx myself by even saying this out loud, but I feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m getting pretty good at this whole moving-and-starting-over thing.

In the past when Joey and I have moved, it has taken me months to years to get our apartment sorted out. This time around, I feel like I’m making much swifter progress. It helps that I spent an inordinate amount of time planning each room before we moved, but the fact is, things are gettin’ done.

I start the process by making a very in-depth to-do list every Friday. And when I say “in-depth,” I’m not messing around.

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List in hand, I can dive into the weekend with a very specific plan. Fortunately, enough, the last couple of weekends have been pretty open, so I’ve gotten most of each list done each time.

Now, enough talk! Show, don’t tell, as they say. Keep in mind, it’s not done-done, but it definitely feels a lot more like a living room than it did a few weeks back. You know, when it looked like this:

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Or even when it looked like this:

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And now, for those of you who keep asking me for pictures, here is what I’m coming home to this week:

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Processed with VSCOcam with c1 preset

As I said, not totally done. Joey and I also set up the desk this weekend, but all the cords and wires are still a little too unruly to be photo-ready — stay tuned.

All in all, I’m pretty pleased with how it’s coming along. We officially have no more boxes in the living room, so that alone is reason for celebration.

Coming up next, the how-to for our pretty new dining table. See ya tomorrow!

The best laid plans

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I’m quickly learning that with motherhood comes a hefty dose of not really being in control of much.

Today I had my ultrasound that was supposed to tell me our little bub’s gender. We wanted to have a little party to celebrate the big reveal (y’all know I’ll take any excuse to party), so we had planned to hold it this Sunday.

Of course, even as I planned I was nervous about setting the date. I have heard enough stories of shy babies concealing the goods on an ultrasound or two, but nearly everyone I asked seemed confident that it wouldn’t be an issue.

Apparently they had forgotten what contrary genes I’ve passed on to this child.

Despite being his or her usual wiggleworm self on the monitor, my baby kept his or her legs resolutely shut for the whole scan. On one hand, I’m happy my baby isn’t flashing its goodies for just anyone. On the other, come on, baby! Your type A mother needs to plan a nursery over here!

But, as I said, I’m pretty sure this is the least of my worries in the list of “things I can’t control about my child”. So maybe I should just get used to it.

And while I was super bummed when the nurse first gave me the non-news, I’ve made peace with waiting another month. It gives me more time to get the apartment ready for company, and at the end of the day, the only thing I really care about is that the little bean is healthy and happy in there. Besides, my mother tells me that I did the exact same thing when she was pregnant with me, so I can’t really blame the kid for taking after its mother.

More like myself.

Do you ever stop to think about the little things in your life that make you you?

I don’t. Or, at least, I didn’t used to. Which is funny to me because, as you’ve probably worked out by now, I’m a fairly introspective person. I think a lot about what I feel and why I feel it and what do I wish would have happened and why is that important to me and what does that say about me as a human being.

It can be exhausting.

But as much thought as I put into those things, it’s really not until I suddenly don’t feel like myself that I start to analyze who (or what) exactly I am.

For example, we moved a few weeks ago. (Yuck.) Not on the list of my favorite ways to spend a weekend, but the real worst part of moving to me is that your life is in complete disorder for at least a couple of weeks. Clothes are in random boxes in random rooms, dishes are buried under boxes of towels, and the thought of cooking at home (and thereby increasing the already overwhelming mess) is enough to induce tears. (Or maybe that’s just me?)

So for a few weeks, you wear boring outfits because God only knows where your accessories (or even your favorite jeans) are. And you eat takeout for every meal until your Seamless delivery guy starts to call you by name. And you shuffle and sidle around boxes so much you almost forget what it’s like to walk in a straight line through your own dang living room.

Hypothetically, of course.

Of course, I know that these things bother me, but it wasn’t until this weekend that I really started to analyze why. It wasn’t until I finally cleared away the majority of the boxes, set up our kitchen, and organized my clothes. When Joey and I had finally blocked off the living room and tossed the mound of cardboard molding on our patio. And suddenly…we could actually live in our apartment.

And immediately I started to feel more like myself.

Which…is weird? Because it’s not like you ever stop being yourself. But I had stopped being me in the way I define it. As someone who stays very organized. Who plans their outfits and puts some effort into their hair. Who can make their own breakfast before leaving the house. Who can walk from the kitchen to the bathroom without risking life and limb.

And maybe these are silly, surface things. So maybe I’m a silly, surface person. (See what I mean about the dangers of introspection?)

Now, I’m of course being a bit dramatic here. When I say “what defines me,” I am perfectly aware that there are myriad other things that make up who I am besides the fact that I appreciate a well ordered linen closet and shoes that perfectly mismatch with an outfit. But there’s something to be said for how having those things makes me feel — about my life and myself.

Which made me wonder…what are your things that make up you? Look at it like a desert island game: If you could only have five things every day to make you feel human, what would they be?

Judgment-free zone — there’s no way your list is shallower than a 1-inch curling iron.