I spent yesterday at a friend’s house “helping” her get ready for her garage sale today. I put “helping” in quotes because I don’t feel that I was very helpful. I sorted some books, moved some not-too-heavy objects from point A to point B, and directed her teenagers a little. Even with that minimal involvement, I was wiped and back-achey by the end of the day. The sweltering heat is really getting to me.It’s only really at times like that, when just a bit of minor light lifting in the heat sends me into spasms of Braxton Hicks that I really realize how pregnant I am.
Just like how Perfect Husband’s first words to me when I get up in the morning tend to be “holy crap… you’re PREGNANT!” when he sees me afresh each day.
My friend really didn’t work me too hard. SHE’S more aware of the limitations of my pregnancy than I am, I think. Mostly, I was there for company and to poke her if my friend wandered off to a computer or something. That wasn’t necessary, though. She plowed through an entire garage worth of junk and by the end of the day everything was sorted.
This is the same friend who wants to paint my nursery for me as a gift. To my original vision of blue sky and clouds she has slowly added in her imagination a giraffe, a lion, a tree, and even my own pets all painted on the walls. All of which would be totally amazing. But she works full time, has two teenagers, and is trying to get her house ready to be sold. She’s a busy, busy lady, and she just hasn’t found the time to get paints and come to my house yet.
As much as I would love the giraffe and lion and tree with my cat in the branches, I think I’m going to have to remind my friend that it doesn’t all have to be done at once. In fact, the nursery doesn’t NEED to be done at all, since the baby will sleep in a moses basket with me for the first few months (breastfeeding = getting up every hour and a half = me not wanting to go to a different room to pick up the baby every time) but the pregnancy hormones are screaming “YOU NEED A NURSERY!!!”. The baby, due to show up in the next eight weeks, doesn’t really feel real yet, even when he’s propping up my ribs like a tent pole with one of his limbs. The spare bedroom is still a mess of gulag-grey walls, bare futon, piles of clothes and so on. It doesn’t LOOK like we’re expecting a baby, so it’s hard for me to believe that my life will change so utterly in just a couple of months.
So I think I’ll wait until her garage sale is done, then call her and propose that we do the basic blue paint with clouds, so I’ll feel like there is a nursery around, and my friend can add giraffes and trees and things in the nebulous future when she finds the time and energy.