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The P Files: Week 33

7 weeks to go. SEVEN WEEKS. Wow.

We've had two baby showers, with two more coming up before Christmas. They're lots of fun, though it's hard not to feel awkward opening gifts while people look on. I always wonder if I'm gracious enough.

I had my first toy-assembly experience last night:the ExerSaucer Mega, which was only mildy frustrating. Nevermind that it will be like four months (at least) before shrimpy can even use it...it was very important that I get it put together last night. Pregnancy logic.

I took the week off work, which explains why I'm in my pajamas at 10am on a Monday morning. It's strange to have an expanse of three days stretching out in front of me with nothing that I have to do. There are lots of things I want to do, or feel like I need to do (baby room curtains, kitchen curtains, organizing the home office, unpacking and shelving books in the basement, knitting a pair of baby booties, getting a prenatal massage, taking a coat to the tailor, bringing some pictures to the frameshop, getting prints of some photos made, shopping for closet shelving, washing baby clothes, picking up living room curtains, getting curtain rods, you get the idea...), but truthfully there is nothing I have to do. And truthfully, nothing stresses out a Type A more than having nothing to do. I feel almost sick to my stomach, wondering what to do with my time.

Jeremy gets off work at 1pm today, so I do have one appointment on the calendar: Harry Potter matinee. Last night, I started reading a novel -- which I think may be the first novel I've picked up since I got pregnant (my reading life has been crammed with baby and parenting books). Maybe I'll go for a walk today, too.

I know this leisure time is good for me. It's almost sad how hard it is for me to enjoy it.

Posted November 21, 2005 10:03 AM | On This Day: 2004 2002

 

2 Comments

Darn...I wish I'd known. I had monday and tuesday off from work this week. drats and double drats. call a sistah sometime.

Pretty soon your only job will be mothering. Or as dad calls it, smothering.