Trying to wear them off by cleaning the lounge windows was an even worse one.
Barf.
No to mention that sparkly windows seems to be a screaming invitation for our resident canines to immediately rub their noses all over them again, so it's back to looking like you've been sitting on the couch all afternoon doing nothing. Which I suppose is almost accurate. One of these days I'm going to take a photo of my sparkly clean windows in the 10 second window that comes after I've cleaned them, and before the dogs re-snot them, so I can frame it and hang it up next to said windows just to prove that they do actually get cleaned. One of these days. When I can find the camera (not to self - it is not a good idea to be 37 weeks pregnant and unable to find the camera ... just in case the kid pops out and you are left sans memories captured forever in ... bollocks. Memory card. Film sounds so much cooler).
Tomorrow is the first of our last OB appointments before kiddly does his thing (as in, we're down to weekly ones). I'm still hopeful that I have a couple of weeks up my sleeve, but you never can tell. There is a level of strangeness which is stranger than normal, to how I'm starting to feel which makes me think that hormones etc are changing, and my body is planning something evil. Nothing imminent, it's just being thoughtful.
Mind you, for all I'm hoping I have a few weeks up my sleeve, I'd dearly love my numb sausage and meat pattie hands to un-numb themselves and apparently the only way that is going to happen is by giving birth. I suppose I should just be grateful that I at least finished work before they got really really bad and became next to useless. I'll take a photo of the husband cutting up my dinner, shall I? (reminder note to self in case I've already forgotten - find the blardy camera)
I think the one thing that has really surprised me (aside from sausage and meat pattie hands, because of all the weird and wonderful late pregnancy things I've heard about, and as much as I've heard that one often does blow up like a puffer fish, I really wasn't expecting to blow up so much that the nerves to my hands would have a fit) is that I really wasn't expecting to have to adjust to the idea of finishing work. I'm relieved and then some, believe me - my body has just gone puh! with exhaustion (how on earth do people work up to 2 weeks out, or even till they pop? Seriously! Maybe it's that they don't try to do it at this time of year when there are all manner of socialisy things on as well as extra workloads that come with the year coming to a close) ... but it's coming to terms (I guess? I'm not sure if that's the right expression) with a new life about to begin, anticipating the absolute unknown, and yes, the single income because that really is a bit scary and my awareness of no longer contributing to the household financially is really strong.
Even trying to set new routines for myself is a bit strange ... I've been getting up before 6am to get to work during the week for years, collapsing at weekend, mucking about during holidays, getting washing and housework done on Fridays and Saturdays, or Sundays if I couldn't be arsed on Friday or Saturday. Now I get up and I don't have to be anywhere to do anything, I can do washing whenever I feel like it (not that I couldn't before, but in the middle of the day in the middle of the week I was usually at work and more often than not by the time I got home I couldn't be arsed, hence washing in the weekends), same with the housework (ditto), and yet I've just realised that it's almost dinner time and I can't remember doing my teeth today (niiiice!), and it was lunch time before I had a shower. 'tis just a new beginning that feels a little stranger than I imagined it would I guess. Of course it's probably a complete waste of time even worrying slash thinking about it because whatever new routine I establish in the next few weeks is going to be blown to hell and then some in very short order.
And on that note, I have just fixed up my millionth typo from trying to blog with little feeling/movement in my hands, so I'm off to sulk gracefully on the couch about sausage and meat pattie hands while I try to stay away from the batch of Queen cakes I made shortly after the chocolate cake, which are sitting next to the chocolate afghans which really should be eaten because they're two days old.
I think I might just give the scales at the OB's rooms a miss tomorrow.
1 comment:
hee hee hee, baking. excellent.
re the stuff, the good thing is that cuinn will want entirely different things when he is old enough to ask - stock up on cell phones, plugs, powerpoints, pens, beer bottles, t.vs, radios, tools, handles, levers, keys, locks, adult shoes, bras (if he is like amelia he will be a lingerie locust, taking rows of their hangers in posh shops), olives, buttons, zips, paper and books (to rip, eat, and write on), dvds (to try and stuff in your laptop), credit cards (to take out of your wallet and hand to store personnel) . . . wrapping paper, huge cardboard boxes, an unending supply of 'ning' (her word for breastfeeding) etc etc etc . . . slides, swings, bike seats, biscuits, and TOGS (amelia brings hers down every morning and insists on wearing them, and sometimes wants her swim nappies on over her clothes, kind of superhero with a kink) . . .
oh, and forget the window cleaning, just paint them all with blackout paint up to waist height on al . . . kids fingers noses and slobber are even more relelntless than puppies noses.
Post a Comment