she's a jukebox with a knack for fighting

Oh, the things I would like to blog about--I would like to tell you that I'm methodically working my way through my packing, making sensible decisions, scheduling the cleaning that needs to be done around here--but that's spook. I am mostly staring in dismay at the boxes, bereft of any sense of what needs to go in them or how to go about it. Or, in the rare occasion when I know exactly what needs to be packed and how, void of motivation to do it.

I hate transition periods. I want to be in the new place, already, and then we could unpack things. That part is not so bad.

Similarly, I'm impatient with my pregnancy. I should say that things have gotten better. Both the nausea and the dizziness have passed, and it wasn't until they were both gone that I really knew how exhausted I've been for the last four months. I have a personality again, and the resources to look for the positive in things, whereas when I look back I can see that I was coasting on the habit of cracking jokes about the things that make me want to cry. Now I'm happy to see people. I can think about something other than how wretched I've been feeling. So aside from the fact that all my connective tissues are loosening up, which means that if I stand for any length of time it feels like someone is taking a chisel to my pelvis, I'm doing pretty well. (For those of you who wonder about it: try not to be working in retail sales when you're pregnant. Every frustrating limitation will directly impact your ability to do every aspect of your job. I'm just saying.) I think it's a good sign that I feel better enough to feel antsy. I want to meet the shrimpbaby--on the outside. We have seventeen weeks to go. (I checked; I keep screwing up the count and thinking we're farther along than we are.) I am trying to be grateful that we've got the time; after all, there are nine million things to do between now and then.