xylophones for the underprivileged.

Today at work Mathieu shared some spam text that included the phrase “xylophones for the underprivileged,” which for some reason I just loved. It has a ring to it. And it is absurd.

This week was pretty hectic at work, and just slogging through all the tumblrgencies kind of threw all other projects to the wayside. Wednesday was supposed to be the most hectic day of all because we were to have NY visitors down, but they ended up not being able to make it. After work, I sliced up a bunch of strawberries in preparation for making this no-bake strawberry icebox cake, and then went to yoga. I had a terrible practice, which I think was a combination of eating too much, having swollen feet and ankles, having someone pushing on my ribs from the inside the entire time, and not being able to take very deep breaths. Anyway, the worst part isn’t that I had a bad practice — I’m sure that’s to be expected this late in the game, and I should count it a victory that I’m still showing up to yoga at all. But really it’s just my pride. I keep thinking that if I don’t acknowledge the limitations that are creeping in, I won’t have to modify anything and stall my progress. Or my perceived progress. Really this just boils down to me having such a great pregnancy that I balk at the tiniest inconveniences. Back at home, I finished making the cake (which took way longer than it should because I was getting OCD about the thickness of the strawberry slices and lining them up perfectly on the graham crackers — hello, nobody cares that much about the stupid strawberries!) and then went upstairs and frowned at my ankles for a while before bed. I was exhausted and probably the most uncomfortable I had been so far.

Later it occurred to me that after work on Wednesday I was either on my feet or at yoga for a span of about 5 hours, which in my sedentary desk-dwelling life is a long time, which is probably why I felt like garbage.

Yesterday marked 32 / 40 weeks, which is crazy. The baby is supposedly as big as a large jicama, and weighs almost 4 pounds. After City Group (in which everyone enjoyed the aforementioned cake), I got ready for bed and unmake-upped / took off nail polish while Dan read aloud to me from the bathtub. He’s reading The Expectant Father, which seems interesting and pleasant to read in the way that Bringing up Bebe was. Conversational and matter-of-fact without being judgey, with nerdy tidbits about different studies that have been done, etc. We’re “intellectuals,” as Bill Cosby would say.

Then I went to sleep and woke up at 1:30am and didn’t know where Sophie was, and I couldn’t find her by calling at either door. Went back to sleep and dreamed vivid pregnancy dreams about vampires and werewolves and woke up to Sophie waiting patiently clawing at the front door.

Today at work we had delicious treats from Dixie Doughnuts and lunch from BoDillaz (also good despite the ridic name), and either someone has been pressing as hard as she can on my ribcage or I’m experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions. I can’t tell the difference.


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