August September? Before you know it, Oliver will be graduating from college and I’ll only be up to 20 blog entries. Maybe.
Really, I blame the pregnancy for my writing laziness. To know me is to know I'm a multi-tasking, overachieving, to-do-list-creating kind of chick. I don't get overwhelmed; I simply kick things into high gear. If I don't do a task (weekend of no dishes, anyone?), it's because slacking off was actually on the agenda.
What? I said I have issues. I believe that one falls around number 243 on the list.
Enter pregnancy. Pregnancy doesn't give a damn about you. It has its own agenda and doesn't care what it does to your emotions, plans, or shoe size. Frankly, it's a disrespectful little turd.
And let’s not forget that pregnancy is a public condition. As you grapple with understanding the tricky beast, you are completely on display. You walk in a room and everyone stares at you. Actually, they stare at your growing belly. The phrase, "Hey, I'm up here," has taken on an entirely new meaning.
As they would say in Fight Club, “I am Oliver’s womb.”
I have become a glorified incubator for a parasite. The smartest, cutest darn parasite there could possibly be, but a parasite nonetheless. Pregnancy takes my energy and eats away at my creative thoughts. I can now only think of doctor’s appointments, child birthing classes, and ice cream. And naps. And foot rubs, glorious foot rubs.
New plan of attack: from now on I’m going to let my Catholic guilt gnaw at me to update this site more often. It should be an even match for the pregnancy—a real Goliath versus Goliath battle. The heavens will tremble; lighting bolts will be thrown.
Just to be extra prepared, I’ll pray and eat ice cream.
Also, I’ll don my mouth guard.
And possibly a helmet.
Stay tuned next week for the results. This is going to be epic, people.