What I’m trying to read before Week 37:

  • Juju Sundin’s birth skills with Sarah Murdoch
  • On becoming baby wise: giving your infant the gift of nighttime sleep
  • Kidwrangling, by Kaz Cooke

What I’m actually reading before Week 37:

  • Jump! by Jilly Cooper

While vacillating between both classes of books, I’m getting the distinct feeling that I’m setting the tone for the rest of my stay-at-home career. I’m also getting the stinkin’ suspicion that I’m leaning towards the lazy side of mommyhood. I think I’m quite ensconced in the at-risk group anyway.

The nesting period that’s supposed to descend on me come the second trimester? Either it came and went over a tummyache, or bypassed us altogether like the Angel of Home Decor repelled by the million cobwebs draping our doorposts. In fact, ever since we trundled into Trimester Three, my overall domestic-goddess quotient has taken a nosedive. I do enough to get by, but most days I get home with just enough energy to cook, and the rest is spent trying to unwind from work.

And unfortunately, reading up on baby sleeping theory and optimal birth positions still feels like work.

The thing is, every project manager bone in my body is screaming at me for not applying my professional skills at home. And in the forefront of my mind, in the part of the brain that is wired to feel guilty and assuage said guilt with Connoiseur cafe grande ice cream heaped on a meringue nest, is the understanding that if I want something enough, I’d make time for it. 

Which brings me to the ugly truth: while I love this baby growing and kicking and twitching and bodyslamming inside of me… I obviously lack some sort of selfless passion that governs my being and propels me to devour every book in my path that could lead me to some sort of Mommy Nirvana.

Instead, I’m reading a very thick chick lit about horse racing.

The scary thing is that I’ve blown the second trimester. It’s gonna be downhill from here. Both Blobette and I are doing all we can to keep comfortable, but we’re fighting a losing battle as she gets bigger each day. I’m losing my fight with water retention. I’m losing my grip on quality sleep. And I’ve never been so sick of sneezing in my life, because that’s all I seem to do now. 

You know the force is getting dark when you find yourself at home with a head cold, wearing

  • a fire engine-red knitted poncho, over a
  • grey T-shirt, text shouting Hello! Lovely Silly, over a pair of
  • sky-blue flannel pajama pants with printed giraffes gripping pink roses in their teeth, over a pair of
  • Monty Python killer bunny slippers

and you actually answer the door clad in such when the Jehovah’s Witnesses come by.

And that’s the problem. I’ve crossed over into the I-don’t-give-a-stuff zone – right when I really need to give a stuff. It’s Week 30 from next week. It’s crunch time, baby. But if I love you, why oh why can I not get my act together?

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