(no subject)

Reading Material:	Tigers in the Snow by by Peter Matthiessen
	+ asst. romance novels and children's books

I've been busy being a watched pot. On Thurs. evening my mom came over to do my dishes, bless her. She took one look at how exhausted we looked (probably several actually) and packed up the Connor-meister for an impromptu sleep-over at her house. Double bless her. Alan and I felt so vigorous and refreshed when we woke up Friday morning, after sleeping in as long as we liked, that we knocked the mucous plug (blocks the entrance of the cervix during pregnancy) loose. This is not a bad thing, but it generally means labor is only a few hours or days away. Shrug. Only time will tell, but I'm ready to not be 9.5 months pregnant anytime now.

It's good that it gave us some incentive to really get stuff ready. On Valentine's Day... Alan dug out the infant seat and washed and installed it. We, mostly he, washed all of the bedding and towels in the house, often twice as Connor does something evil to about half of them right away, and remade the beds. Thank god we have a dryer. I sent him out for more sheets, some groceries, a post-partum herbal bath thingie, chocolate ice cream for the midwives (it was specifically on their list), extra towels and wash clothes from Mom, etc. Still no baby though. Then at 1 a.m. there was a call for a birth tub. Eeeee! I did all the prep work while he psyched himself to put clothes on and face the night. I guess we're busy. I am so pregnant, I'm having mild contractions, but I still have to do stuff. It's not fair. I feel like I should get to retire to a divan somewhere and be fanned by muscular slaves until I give birth. Instead I'm packing a 30 lb. toddler to the potty every 20 minutes. Such is real life, I guess. Multi-tasking, that's it.

(no subject)

I used to believe in 'mature relationships'. True, I had encountered them only in fiction, but what the heck. It seemed reasonable. I've long been getting reports from the front, however. Disturbing and disheartening reports. It seems that these mutual stroke-fests where people tend to one another's egos and sore backs and gonads in perfect respect and harmony, living their own full lives, feeling nothing beyond great warmth and affection, parting fondly as happy destiny sweeps them down different paths... well, apparently they just don't much exist. At least not for long. It seems that people are changable beasts, and generally either become more or less fond of a person over time, if they have much interaction. Most folks are dreadfully prone to forming attachments and habits in any case, especially to those in the general vicinity of which they experience orgasms. Sooner or later apparently, usually sooner, one party is going to fall in love or out of like, and it all goes down the tubes. *Sigh* I suppose I ought to have made the connection between the likelihood of such relationships and the quantity of mature, enlightened, emotionally and financially independant individuals available to form them. Another illusion shattered. Next week: Vaginal Orgasms and Santa Claus (just kidding, I can't recall believing in either)