Malcolm was adorable in his desire for attention this morning. We both sat on the bed, talking to each other, petting him, saying that he really is the perfect dog. Of course, this evening, now, as Justin is out running some errands, he’s pacing the house and whining, sad that Justin is gone. Alas, the life of a dog is hard. He seems to have forgotten that he and J played in the new fluffy snow today, or that we had lean-and-pet time when I got home, or that he got eggs with probiotic powder for his evening snack, or even that he gets a damn evening snack… no, he’s just going to lie in front of the kitchen door that leads to the garage and look sad and occasionally whine. This is what we call “living in the moment.” He’ll have a new moment to live in, soon enough. I just gave him a bite of cheese. Nice Dubliner, no less. Now he’s whining again. Find a new moment, Malcolm. He’ll come back, I promise.
Last night I declared that we needed to stop eating crap food and sugary treats, and that our food should consist of actual food, regardless of how tired I am. Then I made dinner and it was great: mashed sweet potato, sauteed yellow pepper and snap peas, and a beef rib steak, boned and trimmed. I, um, also cooked everything with butter. BUTTER IS FOOD, dammit. Tonight we’re having meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas, because that’s what we had the stuff for in the house. One of Justin’s errands is to get groceries, and I noted “you can add green vegetables to the list if you’re tired of frozen peas.” We’re trying. Trying is good enough.
I have reached the part of pregnant where it’s not sitting, it’s not standing, it’s not lying down… none of those is the problem. It’s transitioning between them. That’s when my pelvis and lower abs start to scream. And walking is pretty achey and limpy, too. Walk more when you’re pregnant, my ass. YOU try it, in this body. My tension and trigger point headache issues have resurfaced in the last week, as well, as my shoulders continue to destabilize. I keep stretching, and trying to manage my posture, but it’s not always easy, or effective.
Work is proceeding; I’m nearly finished with all the major projects I want to get done before my leave begins. I’m very optimistic that I can get it done. I’ve set the start of my leave for February 17th, and my goal is to be done with the work projects by the 12th. We’ll see, we’ll see.
I was talking to a guy at work today, who was reminiscing about how excited he was when his wife was at this stage of pregnancy last year. I mentioned as we were discussing the latter part of pregnancy that I’m 38; he was startled, and said, “I didn’t realize that!” Then, apparently thinking that sounded rude, though I wasn’t offended, he clarified “I’m 39!” and all I could think was that I didn’t realize that, either. So I wonder if my ability to judge peoples’ ages is diminishing, or if I just think that people who are “my age” look younger than we really are?
We’re going to take the tree down today. What? It’s only February 5. I don’t know why you’re looking at me funny. Besides, I’m stupidly pregnant and Justin was sick for nearly 3 weeks straight in January. We’ve been distracted. And it’s still pretty. And it’s still winter out there, so we’re still celebrating it. Not to mention that the predicted 2″ of snow for today turned out to be something like 6″, so to hell with convention, our tree’s still up.
In short, life’s good. We’re going to have a baby very very soon, and my dog is still whining.