Poison Darts and Past Loves (That's the name of my new album. You know, the one that exists in my head.)
Posted Dec 12 2008 3:51pm
It's 2:58 in the morning and where am I? Up! Isn't that brilliant?
I hit the hay at an entirely adequate hour (9:30) which in the past would have seemed ridiculous, insane, atrocious (going to bed so early) but since carry around this baby has been just what I typically need to feel rested come morning. (So that's how we become our parents!) But of course, given my overactive bladder (yet another fun aspect of pregnancy to look forward to if you haven't experienced it yet--your bladder is a virtual trampoline for baby's antics) and my overactive mind, sleep just doesn't seem to want to stick.
And of course it's all the annoying things I end up thinking about. Work, money, how it is that I could have let myself do [insert one of a billion stupid things I have done in my life here]. Why do I go there? To those things I try to forget, but inevitably regret. No regrets? My foot.
At least I am getting into my DeVries book. (And thanks, too, for the suggestion, Caitlin!)
It's about 43 degrees out. September 12th. The dog is huddled like sausage on the couch. The lights from the pool yard in the apartment complex across the street send an eerie glow in through our windows which I closed to save the cacti from the cold. Alex and I have a competition for who will turn the heat on first this year (not that I am suggesting I would tonight) but I suspect in the end it will be me. Although the 5 extra degrees the pregnancy layers me with might protect me. (However, I fear, my mentioning it here has surely cost me.)
One thing is for sure, I am less grumpy with the heat's dissipation. Find myself content to lull around the house in the evenings, whereas before it was sheer torture.
Our birthing classes start in a couple weeks and I am baking at the old cafe a few times for my landlady on Sunday mornings. Back to the early morning rise, though it'll be good to have a couple extra bucks in my pocket.
Last night at this festival meeting (oh, this festival! which is this weekend!) a committee member kept exclaiming, "Wow, you're really popping! You're really popping!" and pointing at the general vicinity of my belly. Funny because I had recently finished complaining to my boss, "Lord, I feel real pregnant today." It's not necessarily comfortable. Feels like palming a soccer ball until your fingers are stretched to the limit and sore. Only...with your belly. Well...that's how I tried to explain it to Alex today anyway. Though I think it's just because I read in my weekly "You're 24 Weeks Pregnant" newsletter that that's the size of my uterus this week--the size of a soccer ball. The comparisons used to be more organic. We went from poppy seed to sesame seed to pinto bean to grape to onion. Now we talk softballs, soccer balls, eventually, I'm afraid they'll move onto automobiles. Your uterus is now the size of a Lexus!
And what is it, seriously, with dust? One of my favorite gifts this birthday was my Swiffer. Oh sure, I've owned them before...but there's something about dust and pregnancy that just doesn't mix and makes me want to propose marriage to my Swiffie Piffie Pants. You see it's a case of the Not my baby. Not this dust. syndrome. They can't co-mingle. I'm not down with that. It's an endless battle. And did I mention, we have a dog who thinks it's real funny to shed?
And lists? Alex? Was I always this bad with lists? (O.K., that one, I think I was...but the worry!) Oy!
My poor pup looks like a frozen treat the way he is curled up so tightly on the couch. I am off to coax him to the bedroom and his new special bed. I am off to a couple chapters of DeVries and soon after, hopefully, to sleep. Perchance to dream? Though, with the intense dreams (of poison darts and past loves) I have been having, I might prefer the sleep.