Sometimes I have a moment where I realize how really, truly, very pregnant I am. Like when I’m sitting on the floor, organizing my kitchen cabinets (because one clearly can’t bring a baby home to an apartment with cluttered cabinets…obviously), and there’s no one around to help me get back up. I’m glad no one was there to see my slow, ponderous ascent, although if there had been an observer, it would have been much less difficult.
Or the afternoons when I mop, wipe down walls, organize aforementioned cabinets, cook and freeze meals, and vacuum, driven by that mysterious force–what folklore has named “nesting”. I thought nesting was for people who were much more organized than I am, much more oriented by perfection. I thought I might escape. Evidently, however, the urge strikes even the least likely. So if you need me, I’ll just be spot-cleaning my carpet.
In the spirit of full disclosure, however, I should add that in between all of the crazed cleaning I have managed to find time to spend literally hours reading The Pioneer Woman archives. Lest you think that I have suddenly developed a whole new personality, let me assure you. I still possess the capability to waste prodigious amounts of time.