so Courtney Love and a polar bear walk into a bar. . .

Just a few days left till Manchild's arrival. I have left the nesting phase and entered hibernation.  (This pleases Peter a great deal; in the fluffy white bathrobe that I wear at least several hours a day now, he thinks I look like a polar bear. I think it is very, very brave of him to say this out loud, and only the fact that my top land speed these days can charitably be described as "slothlike" has made it possible for him to say it more than once.)



OK, I kind of see his point. Throw in a Roku remote and a bigger belly and that guy in front is pretty much me.

My brain is also in hibernation. It just took me twenty minutes, five google searches, and three manuals to remember where the heck to load the paper in our printer.  (Answer: paper tray. In the front of the printer. Labeled in letters 3 feet tall. Where it's always been.)

And this morning I did a Really Bad Thing that my brain was too slow to stop. I looked in the mirror; my bangs were too long; I picked up some scissors and everything went wahoonie-shaped. When I regained awareness fifteen minutes later the bathroom was ankle deep in hair. And I looked like this. Minus the chemically-enhanced (?) smile.

 

It's not that I don't know the rules. I KNOW that the old "just tidying them up" routine only works between sober hours of noon and 6pm. And I know that in between snips you must carefully lay down the scissors, examine your reflection critically, and make a measured judgment before resuming. But this morning my hibernating brain left my arm all alone, and my gleefully unsupervised arm kept chopping. And the best part is how the resulting mess is going to be documented For All Eternity in next week's obligatory hospital pictures.

Oh well. Having missed out on the chance to have our very own Awkward Pregnancy Photo, the least we can do is Awkward Hospital Photo.

pouf the magic dragon

Two weeks (ok, and a bit) to go before Manchild appears. And I still have to learn how to install a carseat.

My nesting urges and my swollen feet are vying for preeminence.  Like when I start scrubbing baseboards with a toothbrush, only to find I can't bend my ankles enough to get up again. But then I am in a perfect spot to crawl around on the floor and pick up lint by hand. Which, it turns out, is very rewarding. It doesn't solve the getting up problem, though.

A nesting urge that DOES work well with swollen feet is online shopping. It's hard (for my conscience) to argue with "it's for the BABY." Less hard for Peter to argue with that, somehow. My conscience is a bit of a pushover.

I decided the other day the VERY THING I needed to make the perfect nursery for Manchild so he grows up with the exact right amount of love/challenge/fun was a Moroccan pouf. Seriously. It's for the BABY.

The problem is Moroccan poufs are trendy and therefore pricey. But I found the excellent store From Morocco With Love, AND a 50% coupon (not sure when it expires, but try HOLIDAY30). And as a result, I now have a super cheery red leather pouf.

For, you know, the baby.
 

From Morocco With Love is also awesome because it's a nonprofit and funds projects in Morocco. So my purchase was for the baby AND the good of humanity. Conscience happy, baby soon-to-be-happy -- everyone wins.

one more baby blanket

Ok I found the baby blanket to end all baby blankets. (Warning: the following image might cause your ovaries to explode. View at your own risk.)

 

Double-sided knit monkey goodness! And check out those simian faces -- some are winking, or sleeping, or puckering up. The mind boggles.

Now I'm going to go google cute baby animals until I run out of Kleenex. Seriously, I think my tear ducts are connected directly to my burgeoning uterus. You should've seen me trying to watch the fabulous documentary Babies last night. I think I may have had Peter a tad bit concerned.

Me: "Look, the Mongolian baby's crawling!" *sob* "Look, the American baby has the hiccups!" *sob* "The Namibian baby is blowing kisses, she's too precious, I can't stand it!" *extended sobbing and whimpering about how BEAUTIFUL and PURE babies are and maybe something about how they smell like angels and unicorns*

Peter: *turns on light, finds me floating in a puddle of tears* "Um, maybe we should watch something a little less intense."

I may or may not have hit him. But he may or may not have deserved it.