Sunday, June 6, 2010


Today I have had the sort of day that will, in 5 months, no longer be possible.  I was still awake writing at 1.30 last night, awaiting the arrival home of my chef husband.  (I mentioned earlier the types of meals I get to indulge in when he’s not working, but to be clear folks, that is the exception and not the rule.  Typically he works 16-hour days, 6 days a week.  It’s a wonder we managed to conceive this child at all!).  This morning, I waved him off from the front door, still dressed in my bathrobe, and after a couple of hours work, decided to treat myself to a massage. 
Ever since the relaxin went spinning round my pelvis, my body has been a mess.  No sooner does the pain in my hip lessen, than my neck and shoulders get so tight, I have a non-stop headache for ten days straight.  I will concede that running probably doesn’t help this much, but I would have gone to prenatal yoga today but they’ve moved it to 7.45am on a Sunday morning.  Who on earth is going to go in search of their pelvic floor at 7.45 on Sunday morning????  I know once the peanut is here, I’ll probably have already been up for four hours by then, but we’re not there yet.  I will adjust to the new schedule when I don’t have any other choice.
So, off I went to the lovely Thai massage place and spent an hour on my side (the pregnancy approved position for massage) and the headache finally went away.  It’s back now, but I’m ignoring it.  Maybe if I don’t give it any attention, it will take up residence in someone else’s shoulders instead.
I changed out of those weird huge pants they make you wear, and instead of returning home to our dark, cold little bat cave, I strolled down the main street and found a seat at our favourite little local café.  They recognize that the benchmark of a good café is one that serves all day breakfast, and I don’t know what they do to their scrambled eggs, but boy are they ever good. I read the paper, catching up on yesterday’s news, (which – in case you were wondering – is universally depressing) and now I write.  I savour the eggs, sip on my still piping hot tea and while away my time completely uninterrupted. 
This is the sort of afternoon that will (according to friends in the know) cease to exist come November 21st this year.  And so because of that, I don’t feel guilty, even when I notice it is raining again and I had ambitiously hung out washing this morning in a desperate attempt to clean some socks and undies.  Buggar it.  I’m not running home for that, we can just go commando for a while, and I call the waiter over to order a second pot of tea.

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