This past weekend, I learned three things:
- We are overly optimistic about large furniture items being able to fit up our narrow, built-in-1900 main staircase;
- I am still capable of random bursts of productive energy;
- But most of the time I feel like I just drank a bottle of Nyquil.
The awesome, coma-inducing original formula, not the watered down, meth-heads-are-ruining-it-for-everyone formula.
The weekend started out with me experiencing two marvelous, consecutive days of energy levels that hovered around normal (or as normal as they can be for a woman carrying 22 extra pounds below her ribcage). We spent Friday evening at a friend’s house, and although I had to take a nap before we went, I was alert & enjoying myself the entire time – so much so that I didn’t even notice that it was nearly 1am by the time we left. That’s ONE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING, the hour by which I’m normally passed out in front a heavily-edited broadcast of “Se7en” on TBS.
“What’s in the *FUDGING* box?!”
I slept in a bit on Saturday, but quickly got started running the errands I’ve been meaning to get to for weeks. OK, months. The warmer temperatures outside certainly helped my energy levels (it’s amazing how much more willing I am to go outside whenever my eyeballs don’t freeze upon stepping out the door!), but I’m definitely not as efficient as I used to be when it comes to walking from one end of the strip mall to the other instead of moving the car each time I want to visit a different store. I haaaaaaaate having to get in the car & maneuver through a crowded parking lot, so I always opt to park centrally and walk, but…see: Pregnant; 7 months; Ass: large. Oh, I still stuck to my plan of walking instead of driving, but I’m pretty sure I looked kind of like a penguin trying to complete a 50-yard-dash.
On a related note, can we please stop making animals dance, Hollywood? Between this and the Madagascar commercials, I am starting to develop a rage problem.
Exciting(?) pregnancy development: I think I felt a Braxton-Hicks contraction while walking waddling around on Saturday. I didn’t think I had ever had one before, but when I explained to my sister that sometimes when I walk a lot, my belly gets kind of tight-ish, she was all THAT’S WHAT BRAXTON-HICKS ARE, DUMBASS. So…I guess that’s what I’ve been feeling? Shit, I don’t know. Tune in two months from now when my baby ends up being born into the leg of my jeans while I sit at my desk because gee, I thought I was just having a really bad bout of indigestion. My bad.
After my Saturday errand-spree I was feeling a little tired, but I still managed to fill out 20 thank-you cards and fix dinner. But on Sunday? I’m afraid pregnancy won out on Sunday, my friends. I woke up craving some fuckin’ FRAAANCH toast. And I’m not talking about your run-of-the-mill “I could go for some french toast” craving, this was a bonafide, first-trimester-intensity, “I cannot get these gummy bears into my face fast enough!” craving.
I may have hovered impatiently around the stove while Brad made the french toast, is what I am saying.
After downing a generous three slices with some turkey sausage and washing it all down with orange juice and coffee, Brad – who had the exact same portion as I did – remarked that he was full. But me? Not even close, my friends. I devoured a banana slathered in [hopefully salmonella-free] peanut butter, then promptly removed myself from the kitchen before I hurt myself.
With such a sizable breakfast in my belly, one would assume I’d be ready to start the day, no?
One would be wrong.
Yes, it seems that the effort of eating my big breakfast wore me plumb out. I took a shower to try to wake myself up, but ended up passed out in a dead sleep about 45 minutes later. And when I woke up? I WAS HUNGRY AGAIN. And after I got myself a snack? EXHAUSTED. I somehow managed to do some laundry in between my busy schedule of napping and feeding, but it was a struggle not to climb into the dryer and fall asleep in the warm towels. Of course, there’s nothing to EAT in the dryer…
I thought I’d feel more awake on Monday after my Sunday of complete and total sloth, and I did! For a while. Then I totally blew my energy wad taking a short walk at lunch, and had to head immediately home after work to recover with a 2-hour nap.
(Found this charming image on – where else?! – MySpace.)
I don’t know about the rest of you, but before I got pregnant, I kind of romanticized the whole eating and sleeping aspect of it. I mean, I knew the whole “Eating for Two” thing was bunk, and it has been nice to just let myself give in to cravings when I have them, but believe me, I am reminded at every turn about how over-indulging will lead to horrible things like gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, rivers running red with the blood of innocents, etc. And I know not to take these worries too far, but you know who isn’t good at not worrying? PREGNANT LADIES. I’m a little better about letting myself have lazy afternoons/days/weeks, mostly because you can’t really “over-do it” when it comes to naps (unless you sprout bedsores, I suppose), and because the midwife specifically told me to try to grab a nap whenever I could, and ALSO because I get so fucking tired sometimes I have no choice (NONE!) but to slap my ass down on the couch and go completely comatose for an hour or two. And I remember when my sister was in this stage of her pregnancy and drove me completely crazy with her guilt-ridden “I should really be cleaning/working out/running errands instead of resting” talk, which made me want to shake her by the shoulders and try to make her understand that SHE WAS REALLY FUCKING PREGNANT and just take a damn nap already!
Pot, meet kettle.
Why was this post entitled “Nursery Rhymes?” OH, RIGHT. We got the nursery furniture delivered this weekend.
Noticeably absent from these pictures is the SUMBITCH 300-POUND ARMOIRE, that trust me looked smaller than the dresser/changing table, but would not make the corner on the landing and up the rest of the stairs to the second floor. After much cursing and wailing, we finally sent the thing back with the delivery guys and wallowed in our armoire-less (and closet-less) sorrow for about 5 minutes before realizing that it might have made the room too crowded anyway, and who needs a 300-lb piece of oak furniture in a nursery, JUST ASKING to be pulled over onto an toddler’s squishy head? Not me, my friends. So we’ll take the refund and put it into Mama’s 2009 De-Sobering Fund, where it will be used to purchase assloads of red wine. And the kid? Well, she can hang up her clothes in the shower or something. I don’t know. Did someone mention wine?
So, with the exception of ordering and hanging the blinds & valances, the nursery is done! If this kid showed up tomorrow, she’d have a (very bright) place to sleep! And we’re all very excited.
Well, maybe not ALL of us.
Entry filed under: And you KNOW THIS!.