Right now, I just look fat, not pregnant. I also am growing out my hair and I am in an awkward phase that looks like a cross between the Dorothy Hamill haircut of the 70s and that episode of Friends when Phoebe gives Monica a haircut like Dudley Moore instead of Demi Moore. The maternity tops that have been loaned to me aren't quite filled out by my belly and my pants either fall off or won't button. I just don't feel good in ill-fitting clothes.
My ipod got washed in the washing machine and I didn't get a chance to work out today. Those two things are loosely related, but I will spare the details to protect the innocent.
I haven't gotten to spend much time with Jay lately that didn't involve us talking about tasks.
"Have you packed the kids' bags? Has the baby had his medicine? Are the sheets dry yet so I can go to bed? Do you think the tax return looks right? How long has that water spot on the ceiling been there--isn't that under the kids' bathroom? What do we need at the grocery? Any ideas on how to make that stupid drawer front in the kitchen stop falling off? Can you do the dentist this week if I do the checkup next week?
None of these topics are very romantic. And none of them encourage loving conversation. Actually, they tend to encourage accusations, frustration, and exasperation.
I need a vacation.
One where looking like you've dressed with clothing exclusively gleaned from your grandmother's closet is considered the height of fashion.