Here’s the thing. When the weekend rolls around I’ve got a general list in my head of things I’d like to get accomplished. The list is always lofty. Ideally, I’d like to get everything done. However, time and time again has proven this is next to impossible. So, I try to prioritize, do what I can, and be OK with the fact that a lot goes undone.
This weekend was especially busy. We decided to throw a small birthday party for Nora yesterday. We’d been back and forth about whether or not to invite several of her little friends and rent out some space to do something different. In the end, we kept things simple and just planned dinner and cupcake decorating with family. It was perfect. I’m glad we didn’t have to stress over the added planning and cost of something bigger. We can consider that next year, maybe, when the threat of a baby dropping at any time is no longer a concern.
Still, I was on my own with the girls all day Saturday as Liam had to work. We tackled trips to the local market as well as the grocery store for eats for the week. My only stressors at these two stops were toting around heavy bags and keeping watch for my almost two-year-old who thought it was all fun and games to try walking away from her mother amidst crowds of people every chance she got.
We also stopped at the beer and wine stores. Both times I left the girls out in the car while I ran inside, against my better judgment and anxiety issues. I just couldn’t deal with unbuckling and buckling them into car seats one more time.
When I came out of the wine shop, longer than I had planned to be away, since the knuckleheads running the joint couldn’t seem to get themselves to the check-out line in a timely fashion, I asked the girls if they’d done alright in my absence. Nora insisted they had. When I asked what they had talked about, she giggled quickly and told me simply: hotdogs. Of course. Why not?
When we made it home and got the groceries put away, I tackled the giant task of cleaning the kitchen, which had been left in shambles from dinner the night before. After that, I started the task of getting chili prepped for the slow cooker.
After that, I fixed lunch for the girls and bustled about straightening up the rest of the house. At naptime, the girls and I climbed into bed together. Every part of my body was insisting I stay under the covers, off my feet, and horizontal. However, there were things to be done, and a timeline by which they needed to be finished.
So, after the girls nodded off, again, against my better judgment, I heaved myself out of bed and waddled off to the kitchen to begin making cupcakes.
In between batches, I vacuumed the living room and dining room, figuring I could save the bedrooms, which had already been neglected for at least a week, if not longer, for the next day.
Things were finally looking to be in place for the party. All was good—that is, if one overlooked the fact that my legs had begun to swell heavily over my socks, my back ached so much I was starting to hunch over, and indeed limp about, and was Braxton-Hicks-contracting every fifteen minutes or so. It was nearly five o’clock and, apart from putting the girls down at nap time, I hadn’t sat down once since seven that morning. I found myself starting to offer up prayers I wouldn’t go into labor any time soon, since my body would likely be so exhausted it wouldn’t be capable of doing the hard and necessary work of labor.
In the end, the evening was great. We had a nice time with my family and Nora had a great little birthday celebration. I was able to overlook the fact that I nearly needed a crane to get me out of the bathtub after our guests left, and that I didn’t get my writing done, and even, that as of this morning, Sunday, I still was not walking correctly due to aching back pain. Thankfully, the stiffness eased up as the day wore on.
For the most part, we were all able to hunker down today and rest. Especially Nora, who, just after rising this morning, went straight to the toilet to puke. At first, we thought it was the mammoth chocolate, candy covered cupcake she had eaten last night. She’s had an isolated puking incident from eating too many sweets once before. However, after the third, fourth, fifth and maybe sixth trip to the bathroom, we were convinced she had gotten some kind of bug. Poor girl. She spent more time on the couch today than anybody. At least she was able to celebrate her party in good health. Fingers crossed, nobody else gets this thing. It’s been a hell of a winter for illness for this family.
In between resting on the couch and taking a much needed nap, I still tried to tackle items on the list in my head. Several loads of laundry got done and folded and put away. We cleaned our sheets and made our bed (always a family affair). The bathroom has been disinfected from pukey germs.
I didn’t get around to baking granola or scheduling a last-minute prenatal massage, but I’ll live. And then, just when I was ready to get the vacuum out one last time to run it across the bedroom floors, the husband looked to me and said, “Is it really necessary to do that now?”
I took a deep breath and gave him a look. I said simply, through gritted teeth, “Yes, it is.” Though I wanted to say, with fire breathing from the pit of my stomach, “If you’re not going to do it for me, without me having to ask, then back the fuck away and let me go about my damn business!”
Like I said, I have a list in my head of things I’d like to get done, and vacuuming is generally a high priority item. I know Liam was coming from a good place, wanting me to rest and not take on yet another chore. He must think I am really a nut-job to be bustling about the house like I do, when we both know how uncomfortable I am. But, this is our third time around. Doesn’t he know by now I am going to nest as I please, so he should either accept it, without comment, or step in and offer to do whatever I’m doing himself? Sheesh. Apparently not. Let’s hope this dragon doesn’t have to remind him about it anytime soon!