Busy Schmizzy

First, if I die tonight there's no sense in wondering why because my ice cream choice today
(and yes, you might as well read between the lines here and assume I have ice cream most nights) is Death by Chocolate. 
What a way to go.

Second, I've already written about being done with busy.  How I was over that word and what it means and it's glorification.  I'm kind of feeling that way when that's what pops into my head as a way to describe my child.  I hadn't really thought about it until the past couple of months ago when Henry really seemed to hit his stride, literally, and other people would comment and say, "he sure is busy!", with an understanding smile.  Like the woman that sat behind Henry and I at church on Sunday.  I thought I could handle it on my own since Andrew had to be at work a lot this weekend, and about 25 minutes into it was feeling pretty good about myself as we rotated between snacks, coloring and trying to jam the pencil back into its place.  Then Henry put the petal to the metal and literally wasn't still until I got him in his car seat after we (finally - thank you, Jesus!) sang the last hymn.  Let's be honest.  I was fighting back tears as we were walking up to communion because he'd just rammed his snack container into my face again,
after he wanted up, no down, no I want to crawl past you into the aisle, just kidding I want up, nope down, etc.  

Let's call it like it is.  

He is at times freaking unstoppable.  It's like he's the bus from Speed and thinks if he slows down he might explode.  Or at least that's how it appears.  Like when he runs laps around the kitchen table for 10, 20, 30 at a time until he's panting
and remembers to grab his drink for a quick swig on his next time around.

Side-tracking works - if the distraction is enticing enough. 

My go-to is, "want to go play outside?".  Which is fine by me...for now.  Until #2 gets here, and it's the middle of winter. 
If you drive by and see Henry and I in head-to-toe snow gear, me holding a baby monitor, him probably still trying to eat rocks, we're fine. 
We're just probably outside for our daily afternoon playtime.  

Except if #2 is anything in the outside world as he/she is in my belly, I'm really in for it because this baby moves.  All the time.  Ooooh, you ate breakfast - kick, punch, punch.  Oooh, I heard the dog bark - wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.  It's time to lay down?  Roll, roll, roll.  Busy?  No, ACTIVE.

Earlier this week I took a cue from Henry and created my own flurry.  On my kitchen.  After I was simultaneously trying to clean the house, make dinner, get ready for my Sunday evening shoot, oh and Andrew needed help hanging the crown molding in the baby's room so picture me holding Henry with one arm (because the air gun noise scared him), on a chair, eight months pregnant, while Andrew installed the molding
and gave fatherly Handy Andy advice, "measure once, cut five times, Henry", trying to take deep breaths (and not fall over)
as I just realized a soda can just exploded in the kitchen.  

So the kitchen deserved every scrub it got on Monday night.  And the toothpicks I used to get into the teeniest crevaces.

I think it's safe to say nesting has begun.

There's no list.  Yet.  Just a Henry-type flurry in my head of to-do's and schedules and check marks.  Good thing this one is dynamite at throwing away trash (among other items), shopping with mama, emptying the dishwasher and rearranging toys, accessories, clothes, etc. 
That baby room may not even be close to being done, but I bet I know someone who would help.