I'm feeling a little like a crock pot. I'm hot all the time and it's taking forever for this kid to get done. Yes, I know that technically I have ten days left. And I know that with my third child, I know better than to believe the doctor when he says I'm dilated to a three on Friday (many women already have their epidurals by then) and should be in labor any minute. Ha. I'm related to my mother. Heck, with Boston, I spoke in church with contractions ten minutes apart and they still had to induce me 2 weeks later. Oh well. Other than that and the newly developed carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand, im feeling great. I had several people ask me yesterday how I was feeling and that I must be pretty miserable, etc., but honestly I still feel great. I' m even sleeping well, albeit, with no covers and a fan going on full blast. I even planted my garden Saturday and have the sore hamstrings to show for it.
Mark spoiled me good for mothers' day. As always. He had a maid service come and do floors and bathrooms for me on Friday. (NOT that they needed it--like I said, I've felt pretty good! However, with the contractions and the fumes and the carpal tunnel, it was pretty easy not to feel guilty about letting someone else clean my house. Plus, he warned me a week in advance not to clean anything--just let it get dirty.)
Then Sunday morning when we woke up he says, with a hint of a groan in his voice, "So. Whaddaya want for breakfast?" I just laughed and said, "How about YOU feed the kids and I'll just get my own breakfast." It was great. He didn't have to break a sweat and I got to finish my cereal before it got soggy. Then for lunch I got just what I wanted, leftover spinach pie and leftover chocolate cake. He fed the kids leftover pizza. Everyone was happy.
This morning's breakfast was also funny. You know that Bill Cosby segment that goes, "Dad is great! Gives us chocolate cake!" Well, Boston and I were up early and had already eaten. Mark is getting a cold and slept in with a Nyquil hangover. I had French Toast stuff downstairs waiting for him. I go back upstairs to start the laundry and I hear Boston downstairs wailing at Mark, "Biiiiiiite! Biiiiiiite!" Mark didn't seem to be figuring out what Boss wanted, so I hollered over the stairrail in exasperation, "He's saying, "Bite!" Give him a bite of what you're eating!" No reply. "Biiiiite!" So I asked again, "Mark, what are you eating?" Pause. Pause. Pause.