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| Putting on brass knuckles. |
I should not be left to my own devices.
This includes all of the times where Nora is napping, I am caught up on household dirtiness, writing deadlines are breezed through, and P.J. is off doing something P.J.-like (i.e., watching Mad Men, showering, or building a door frame).
What, you ask? There are times when all of these forces align and you find yourself with free pockets of the day, gaps of the afternoon and/or early evening where you should go rest/shower and instead you fill in the blanks with the busywork of the insane?
Yep.
For I am in that final stretch of pregnancy. Even though I’m crazily floppy-headed exhausted, I get these bizarre and fleeting bursts of energy…and they’re devious. They whisper things to me like- Launder The Bassinet Bedding. Again.
Do The Laundry Even Though There Are Only Four Pairs Of Socks And Some Pajama Pants In The Hamper.
Stack The Tupperware- Even Though It’ll Make No Difference By Tomorrow Evening, As You Are The Only One Who Even Realizes Tupperware Can (And Should) Be Stacked.
Revise Your Will And Leave Heartfelt Notes For Your Husband/Daughter/Unborn Child. (Oh, that’s right. It just got real.)
Nowhere on these mental lists o’ crazy is the ever-popular Go To Bed Early or Read A Chapter Of That Dashiell Hammett Collection You’ve Been Digging. Because those would be nice, relaxing things for me, the orca of a pregnant woman. No no, the tasks that will be completed are for the people who will have to show up when I go into labor at 3am. Or passersby peeking through the window and judging the state of affairs. Perhaps the panel of judges who will apparently be white-gloving my mantel. WHICH I DO NOT YET HAVE. (Peej- this weekend? Build us a mantel. Put it somewhere the judges will see it.)
And I do realize- in a very small part of my rational being- that alllll of this stuff is aversion to the mind-numbing fear I have that, even though I successfully did all this before and am well on my way to raising an actual member of society, I shall fail to do so this time around. Or fail to do it as well. I am not sure which would be worse.
There’s also a good chance that I am feeling feelings about each and every twinge, pop, twist, kick, and parry currently going on from the region beginning mid-thigh and ending juuust below my clavicle. As I have never been in labor (true) and have no such plans to do so any time in the near future (double true), each instance that indicates any sort of progress towards any sort of active birth sends me running for the Swiffer.
And before anyone feels the need to triple reassure me that I am fine, the baby will be fine, and the house will be fine…I really do know this. I do. That’s what makes my insanity all the more funny. Cognizance.
And on THAT note, anyone wanna place your bets on this kid? I’m going to start it off with 20lbs flat, with a length of at least 37 inches- per octopus leg. As we’re fairly certain that this child will be delivered on the morning of October 4th, you really don’t have to feel compelled to guess a date. And I can’t promise anything to the winner except for perhaps AN AWESOME SHOUT-OUT and/or a pack of Mickey Mouse stickers.
If Nora’s cool with sharing.
On second thought, she might suggest that the warm, contented glow of victory should be enough for you.
She really digs her stickers.
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