Today’s musical interlude brought to you courtesy of Europe.
Bags are packed. All things baby have been set up, washed, placed and purchased.
Family and friends are all on standby. Camera batteries are fresh. Phones have been charged.
The boy is watching a movie to distract himself. I’m not quite sleepy, so I’m doing some editing work for a client, trying to take my mind off off what is in store for me tomorrow.
I’ve had my final meal of the day; I can’t eat anything after midnight.
I’ve cried. I’ve prayed. I requested that others do the same (pray, not cry).
I’ve done all that there is to do.
By this time tomorrow, I’ll be a mommy.
Wish me luck, y’all.
Initial surprise notwithstanding, I have to say I’m pretty freaking happy that li’l miss is coming into the world a good week or so earlier than planned.
At 38w1d, I’m extremely uncomfortable. I know I keep bitching and moaning about it, but as anyone who has made it to this point (and sometimes beyond) can tell you, the last weeks aren’t much fun.
in the nude…
Currently, I don’t like wearing clothes. I haven’t bought a stitch of maternity gear, so the the few loose-fitting items I wore in month six, seven and even eight REALLY don’t fit me now. I’ve resorted to a pair of tights and pajama pants borrowed from mum, and a few stretchy tank tops. When I wear my own clothes, I look as though I’ve been stuffed into them. It’s impossible to look cute now, which is why I’ve pretty much stopped leaving the house. I’ve always been comfortable in the buff, but now that I’ve moved into ginormous territory, I am happiest in just my underwear (and even those feel too constricting at times) with a sheet covering me for modesty.
Don’t tell the boy…
As grumpy as I am most of the time, I have to admit that I absolutely love Valentine’s Day. The boy is not a big spoiler/gift-giver, but this is one of the few days in the year where I know he’s going to get me something, and I get so excited in anticipation. He always does well in the presents department; I’m not easy to buy for, and while he agonizes quite a bit before making a decision and/or purchase, he nails it every time.
I spoil him quite a bit the rest of the year. Every month, on the 26th (to commemorate the date that we met), I give him a card to remind him how much I love him. Sometimes he gets a gift (usually clothes or cologne) or I treat him to dinner. Today, in spite of my size and weight, I slaved over a hot stove for literally hours, hoping to pull off a lovely gourmet-inspired meal that was kind of out of my culinary league.
One of the dishes I made was braised beef in a red wine reduction, which required a day of pre-marinating, and about three or four hours of cooking time. Just before the final hours of slow-roasting in the oven, I invited him to taste a little bite of the meat – for flavour, not texture, mind you. He tentatively took a bite, and then replied, “it’s chewy, babe. Can I offer a suggestion? Next time, boil the beef before you cook it…” Read more
Yup, that’s about right.
My dear friend Ana* had a baby on the 27th of last month. As is typical of new moms, she went MIA from Facebook and most other social media for a few days after the birth. When she resurfaced to share news and pics of her new addition, catch up on emails, inquiries, and well-wishes, she made sure to send me a note bidding me good luck with my own impending arrival, and to outline the harrowing experience that was her (unexpected) C-section (gee, thanks). She ended the note with “sleep now! You won’t get any once the baby comes!! xo”
Now, Ana is not the EATBR that I mentioned earlier this week, but her last sentence caused a searing-hot rage to bubble forth within me, and I fought an overwhelming urge to write back with a curt, “Go f*ck yourself!”
There but for the grace of God, and the love and affection I have for her likely saved her life. Here’s why:
This conversation just happened between me and the boy…
Her: Babe, would you carry a diaper bag?
Her: Like, if you had to take Peanut out for a walk one day, would you carry her supplies in a diaper bag? Not like the one my mother got me – but perhaps a cross-body type thing? Like a mail bag, perhaps?
Him: Never thought about it.
Her: *Googles* Like this? It also comes in grey:
Him: What? Oh my God! (bursts into laughter)
Her: What? It’s a bag, not a PURSE.
Her: (exasperated) Have you never carried anything but a knapsack in your life?
Her: (fed up) Oh, grow up. And be happy I’m not suggesting that bag in this pattern:
Him: I like the first one.
viva el nasal occlusion!
I have a confession: I have become a serial nose-picker.
(Yet another!) one of the downsides of my pregnancy has been nasal congestion and the increase of all manner of yuck going on inside my nose. I have to constantly remind myself not to start excavating in polite company, and even as I type I can feel a small ‘n’ crusty wedged in the back of my right nostril.
I have never liked the feeling of anything at all in my nose, so I dedicate a good portion of my day to keeping the ol’ shnozzola sparkling. Tissue, fingers, cotton swabs – if it fits, it goes up and in to get the offending detritus out. I keep my nails long on purpose – not as digging tools (ewww 😀 ) but a deterrent; long nails and mucous membranes just don’t mix.
The backs of my hands are dry from all the hand-washing/sanitizing I do, on account of all the sniffer-scraping. I’ve always been fastidious about having clean hands, so as soon as my beak-cleaning business is done, it’s time to wash. Scrub-a-dub-dub…
I know. Grody, right? But I haven’t done a TMI in a while, and it’s one of the things that I can’t wait to be rid of once the wee girl makes her debut.
Don’t judge. Just pass the tissue.