Last night I went to a birthday party where the birthday girl decided that, since her favorite meal is breakfast, she wanted breakfast for dinner. It was awesome-- pancakes and waffles and quiche and fruit and hash browns and mimosas (not for me, sadly) and bacon and all manner of breakfasty foods.
And then we lolled around in carb comas, watching the winter oly*mpics and making fun of Bob Cost*as's hair.
I don't live a fancy life, but I like it. A lot.
Not much exciting to report. I'm trying to do something every day to get the house organized for the sproglet's arrival-- today was pulling stuff out of the guest room (which will be the baby's room), as well as organizing the basement storage and ordering a drawer unit for the closet. (Thanks, sale at the Cont*ainer Store. Excellent timing there!) I have to be strategic about what I can and can't keep, given my lack of space.
The list of things I have to do before July is... argh. It's really long. I'm just trying to knock things off, bit by bit. Speaking of which, calling the handyman this week is one way to potentially shorten the to-do list quite a bit.
Sproglet, BTW, has made her presence known. I've had fluttering for about a week and a half or so, but one day this week she decided I was lazing about in bed too late and she thwapped me several times, but good.
As one of my friends said, this is why mothers often look skeptically at those "But I had no idea I was pregnant!" stories-- that particular sensation couldn't have possibly been anything but what it was.
She's settled into a combination of fluttering and thwapping; afternoons seem to be especially busy times for her. She has a lot to do in there, I guess.
It's a bit like the movie Ali*ens, frankly. Yes, I continue to be the least sentimental pregnant woman ever.
But I like that she also, apparently, responds to music. Good girl.