Ever have what you consider a routine event turn unexpectedly complicated?
I am pregnant with my fourth child and when I have a baby, I expect something like this:
1. My doctor confirms a baby is on the way.
2. I grow a bit more cumbersome (ok, so I get big, big pregnant.)
3. Somewhere in the vicinity of my due date, I have a baby.
Please note what was not on the list: a concerned doctor, extended monitoring, additional sonograms with a perinatologist, extended monitoring in the hospital, and hospital bed rest.
This baby didn’t get the memo.
Now I’m living what many mothers of young children only fantasize about: hours alone by myself, and the freedom to read and sleep whenever I like, for as long as I like. But there’s a teen-tiny problem. After ten straight days of this splendid isolation, I am bored; so bored that I order food I don’t want just to break the monotony. I buff my nails every three hours and I’m considering taking two showers a day just for fun. But first I thought I would try something more productive than excessive hygiene.
And so a blog is born. Because I don’t plan on birthing anything else for at least two weeks.
(Did you hear me, Baby?)