All I have to do is get through this week and then I am officially on maternity leave. Sitting in a chair for eight hours is becoming a new kind of torture, though, so we’ll see if I don’t dip into my sick time a little bit.
My body is starting to give me some of the “hey, you’re super pregnant!” signs. For instance, this weekend we lost contact with my inner ankle bones. They just… disappeared like some sort of satellite circling a hostile planet. The hostile planet of my calves. My new cankles are super sexy, though, so I’ve been doing my best to show them off. That and my sausage toes. I haven’t worn a close-toed shoe in a couple weeks and I have no intention of doing so until my inner child becomes my outer child. I’m optimistic that will be happening sooner than later, but if I’m ten days past my due date and getting induced I don’t want to hear it.
If last weekend was spent doing all of the house work in the entire world, this weekend was spent baking and taking naps. I felt a little guilty, but I’m assuming I’m going to need a couple activities to keep me occupied when I actually go into labour so the packing of the hospital bag and re-cleaning of the floors can hold off for a few more days. I’m not assuming I’m going to go into labour before the floors get disgusting again, but a girl can dream, right?
I got a massage on Saturday. It was great, but now I feel like every part of my body she worked on has been hit with a meat tenderizer. When she asked me if my glutes were sore she must not have heard when I told her they were fine because they ended up getting the massage of a lifetime. And then my glutes really were a little sore after the full working over they had. It was their first time ever getting massaged and they were a little unsure. I kept telling myself to relax and just roll with it, but it’s hard to relax certain parts of your body when a stranger is very much in your underwear zone.
I was pretty proud of myself, though, because if I can handle a stranger spending that much quality time focussing on my backside I’m totally ready to have multiple strangers focussing on my front side. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. No shame, right?
I finished the baby’s room this weekend. We bought wipes yesterday and I felt so victorious that we finally had everything we needed. Then I remembered I still hadn’t ordered our baby monitor so… 7-10 days from now we should have it. I guess there could be bigger things missing. Like a crib. Or a baby.
I am going to take full advantage of my “blogger status” and do a “nursery reveal” post shortly. I use “quotation marks” because a) I’m not sure how one attains official blogger status and b) I’m not sure why people insist on making big deals of showing off finished rooms. You know those 80 photos that have already been posted to Instagram of the space? Yeah, they’re pretty revealing. Especially when half of them are of the same room angle, just with one slight difference each time.
Anyway, I feel like showing off the one totally finished room of our house (minus baby and monitor) will be my most popular and pinned post ever. Because that mobile, guys. And those blankets! Seriously, if you could measure how much you’re loved by the number of blankets people make for you, this kid would be crawling all over himself to join this world. There are four blankets in that room, made especially for him, and I know there’s another one on the way. So much love! If that doesn’t make you tear up you’re either broken or hormonally balanced.
Speaking of being hormonally balanced, we finished Friday Night Lights. I’m not one to rant and rave about television, but I think you need to go watch it. Even if you think football is stupid. It’s the perfect amount of heartwarming, drama, football (whatever), greasy-haired rednecks, and southern accents. Also, the finale was kind of perfect. I teared up. My sister-in-law has informed that it really is a great show because it’s real life. That’s actually what football fandom is like south of the border, apparently. She’s from Kansas, not Texas, but as far as I can tell they all have accents and eat chicken fried steak so I trust her judgment.
Also, there’s a car seat in my car. Karl put it in there. It’s looks weird. We have one of those clip in bases so I wasn’t expecting to haul around the full deal until there was an actual infant in the seat, but he put the seat in just to make sure it fit and sees no point in taking it out. Which I guess makes sense.
You don’t really realize how small your car is until you put a car seat in it. We might be able to fit four adults and their luggage comfortably for a multi-day road trip in there, but throw in a car seat and things start feeling claustrophobic. I’m starting to understand why people drive bigger vehicles. Or why they just stay home all the time.
And that’s it. Cankles, car seats, and a tender backside. If that doesn’t make me a blogger, I don’t know what does.