Thirty-nine weeks, folks. That’s how far along I am today. This pregnancy has gone by in a flash, and I’m feeling all sorts of feelings the closer I get to my boy’s due date.
Summer has faded, and the crisp fall air is upon us once again. This time last year, we were saying goodbye to Washington and heading up North to the Final Frontier. This year, we’re long settled in, and anticipating the arrival of our second kiddo, Woody.
Yango is no longer with us, but we have a new dog Sally who is fitting in exceptionally well. We sold our Subaru Forester, and upgraded to a big fat Toyota Sienna. The power sliding doors, blue tooth, remote start, and back up camera are all reminders that it was worth the dive into the ordinary for sweet features, third row, and decent gas mileage. We know we want 3+ kids, so this move to a larger mommed-out vehicle was inevitable. I’ve embraced it.
So as I mentioned, summer is in the rear view mirror, and fall is here again.
And Fairbanks is slowly folding in for the winter. Every night, squawking geese fly overhead on their way south for their seasonal migration. The night time temperatures drop slowly and precipitously, and the sun fades behind the horizon at a decent hour every evening. Summer was nice, but fall is better. Fall feels normal in the land of the Midnight Sun.
September is here, meaning Woody will be arriving with it. Margot won’t be an only child much longer, and if you’ve been following my instagram feed, you’ve seen me clinging to the final weeks of being a family of just three.
I’ve loved staying at home with Margot; watching her grow and learn everyday since birth has been so rewarding.
Lately, Margot’s vocabulary has been exploding exponentially, and it’s amazing to see how independent she has become. She can throw away her own garbage, feed the dog, feed herself, tell me when she has an uh-oh in her diaper (this is a promising step in the direction toward potty training!), and ask for more of pretty much anything. She’s learned to say please, thank you, buh-bye and no at the appropriate times, and has the confidence to repeat nearly any word you ask her to say.
Today she nearly repeated all of the ABC’s as directed, and demonstrated, by shouting at the TV, that she knows both Cookie Monster and Curious George by name. We’re big PBS viewers around here. It’s my parent’s fault for marrying me off at a young age to the television, and it’s my own fault for harboring the relationship, and fostering it with my own toddler. Against better judgement, we watch a solid hour or two (or more — oops) of Sesame Street and Curious George throughout the day. We’re a TV family, and we own it.
When I need more sleep in the morning, I bring Margot into bed with me, queue up Curious George on Netflix, and let her watch for an episode or so, until I’m feeling energized enough to take on the day. Isaac particularly liked this approach when he came home from the Field last week, and needed more sleep during the weekends. My excuse is that pregnancy is hard when you have a giant belly, and a toddler to chase and corral all day. His excuse is he gets up early, and works hard. So there’s your peek into our parenting failures.
On the weekends when we are well rested and well fed, we have headed out to kick around Alaskaland or walk around downtown Fairbanks, all in an attempt to enjoy the city before snow blankets the land once again. The Saturday activities have all been followed by Sundays of intense cleaning, nursery changes, and project completions. We’ve been busy. And lazy. There’s a balance there, and we’re hitting it in stride.
There are still a few things to get done before Woody arrives, but we’re pretty much ready for his arrival.
Until then, I’m cherishing the final few nights of 8+ hours of sleep, cool fall air, and only child Margot. These are all such fleeting events up here in the North. 
When we lived in Washington, the blackberries were plentiful. I mean they were everywhere. They were considered a nuisance for property owners and like the piled up tumbleweeds of the southwest, they were the hallmark of a neglected parcel of land. On road sides and on empty lots, we wrangled our way through the thorny brush to pluck the seedy wild berries so Isaac could snack on them, and I could can them. We even had them in ice cream.
We didn’t collect nearly as many blueberries as the Smiths, probably because I had a difficult time navigating the boggy terrain with a larger than normal body, leaky rain boots, or some other pregnancy-related excuse.
The land we were on had endured wildfires some time ago, leaving the dry, spindly trees to slowly rot. Some had already begun their slow descent to the lush ground cover below.
For more information on canning, head over to 
Yea Yea Pueblo 