It's a good thing I'm the first one into my newsroom in the morning. It gave me time to turn my cute little cropped jacket right-side-out before anyone else saw its inseams.
The other day I left the house with two different shoes on my feet. Luckily I got no farther than my garage. I happened to look down as I got into my car, with the foot pedal lights illuminating one black sequined flat and one red patent leather flat. I rushed back into the house and found the appropriate match.
I really do look in the mirror after I dress, but pregnancy goggles are showing me what I think should be reflected and not always the reality. Maybe I just can't tear my eyes away from my bulging midsection, obsessing over how many people keep telling me, "Wow, you're carrying really low."
I used to take pride in multitasking, which generally is thinking about three different things while doing three other things at the same time. I know damn well I used to be able to properly dress myself while musing about the day ahead, or pray in the shower while washing my hair. Now I just stand there, getting wet, doing neither. It's a wonder I haven't left the house naked yet. ("Yet" is the operative term as I have a few weeks left to go.)
A nurse recently told me the term bandied about by his medical buddies was "placental shunting." Being pregnant makes every useful thought stream right out of a woman's head.
It's not a myth. These days, if I don't write it down, I don't remember it. Even when reviewing my notes, I'm not confident I recorded the information correctly, which is quite troublesome to a journalist's pride.
Of course, the thoughts you wish would float away so easily dig into your brain like hook worms. Worries about labor, delivery and recovery come unbidden to even the most experienced parent. I might be preparing dinner and suddenly freak out that the nursery isn't ready yet. I can't tell you how many hours of sleep I've lost over wondering whether I will return to full-time employment after my maternity leave, or whether my wacky waves of irritability have damaged my marriage for good, or whether my teenage son is getting enough attention.
None of those thoughts are productive, and most of those things are out of my control anyway, at least for the moment. My brain power would be better spent elsewhere, like remembering to pay the cable bill.
This isn't likely to get better any time soon, either. I'll be a sleepless zombie with a squalling bag of baby fat hanging off of my boob. I doubt I'll remember to shower.
No comments:
Post a Comment