I remember, with a sort of hazy distance, the past where I could run four or five errands at a time, juggling tiny people and groceries and complex to-do lists, and even had a good time doing it all.
Right now, I need an hour to recover after hanging out the washing. Elvis the pelvis is still very unhappy, and the chronic pain is grinding me down. I have let go of all my romantic ideals about enjoying this last pregnancy and am just focused on getting to the end now. I'm in withdrawal mode a little from outside life and relationships, and just trying to get through the basics of household management and preparing for next week. I can't get around much, so I've concentrated all my nesting urges into Plum's dresser drawers. My friend Sarah says they look like the work of a serial killer.
Everybody is good. Last night at dinner Ivy said 'Do you want to hear a joke? Teddy did a poo up his nose and then he died!' Kieth and I stared blankly at her. 'Kidding!' she said brightly. After dinner Ted did his Marilyn Monroe impression for us, and if you haven't hear a two-year-old boy sing 'I don't mean rhinestones...' well, you haven't lived.
My most darling Keith turned 40 today. We gave him a fancy magnifying glass, some philosophy and some cashews. His favourite things. His first words of this second half of his life: 'This is preposterous!' Ivy, at 3am, threw a wobbly when she wet one pair of tracksuit pants and was offered a replacement pair that were NOT PINK.
Life, at the minute, is a little preposterous.