En route to the chute

I'm still waddling and wearing the one pair of shoes that still fit my swollen feet. Fortunately, I had oodles of energy this weekend, so I kept up with PapaBear while running errands over the weekend and making a spiffy impromptu dinner last night. Even made banana bread on Friday - you'll have to trust me on this as I just polished off the last crumb.

While I nest, the babe appears to be interested in escape. Based on all the wriggling I feel in my lower elevations, I suspect that she's crafting her exit strategy.

At times, it feels like my daughter is scratching her way out, like she has a dull spoon in hand with which she is slowly but surely working to break free. Remember that old movie in which prisoners of war dig a tunnel and carry out sand in their pockets? If POW can stand for Prisoner of Womb, then I might have a pending prison break on my hands.

My pregnancy library sheds very little light on this scratching sensation. The books have loads of information about the first 2 trimesters, but very little to say about the final days. Perhaps authors realize that pregnant women stop reading by this point. We are either asleep, stressing about labour, or jumping ahead to books on breastfeeding.

Has anyone out there felt as I do (ideally when you were pregnant)?

The agony of de-feet

Just when I thought my grotesque form couldn't get more voluminous, I've discovered a new area of expansion. Today, the reality of swollen feet cannot be denied.

At some point this morning, I kicked off my shoes and settled in to work. Because the office is quiet, I padded back and forth to the printer in my socks. Heading further afield, I decided that shoes were appropriate.

That was when I had problems putting my shoes back on. Eventually, I crammed my tootsies back into their Bass Weejuns (yes, I have a pair of Weejuns), but they were unhappily cramped. My feet actually spilled up and over the loafers' tight rims.

For the rest of the day, I might have to sport my polka-dot Wellingtons or wear (slightly roomier) black shoes with brown pants...which option would be less objectionable to the fashion police?

Food as fashion statement

I just noticed a handful of dried cranberries resting on my boob-shelf. I had some craisins about an hour ago and only now discovered those that did not make their way into the gaping hole in my face.

I think I've had 3 visitors come chat in my office since snack time and no one mentioned a thing. Did they not notice? Did they think that I had adopted dried fruit as my latest accessory?

How I long for the day that I will return to a C-cup without my belly serving as foundational support.

Rituals and habits, nesting and otherwise

I am a creature of habit. A type A personality who likes order. Someone who finds clutter distracting from creativity. Even a less than mindfully originated set of commitments in my calendar can easily become a source of stress.

There are certain things that give me peace, most of which relate to the state of my home environment. An overflowing fruit bowl. A freshly washed kitchen floor. A distinct lack of laundry and ironing to be done. And yes, I make the bed every morning.

For the past 8 years or so, my morning routine has involved a good (although increasingly slow) run, stretch and shower. When BabyBear hit the scene, that run became a walk. Over the past week or so, however, I've missed more morning walks than I have taken. Partly it's the snowy sidewalks. Partly it's the knowledge that we won't control our waking time much longer. Mostly it's the ache that I've developed in my lower back that gets worse whenever I'm vertical.

Inspired by this afternoon's sunshine, PapaBear and I ventured out for a walk. We made it one whole kilometer before I climbed my front steps and headed upstairs for a nap. I clutched his supportive arm much of the way, tentatively taking granny steps and surely not burning any calories.

This marks the final phase of my fitness progression. I once ran marathons and now I do marathon sessions of yoga. Fingers crossed that it keeps me mobile for a few more months. And if I'm lucky, my nesting activities will burn a few calories when I'm not looking.

A poem for MamaBear?

I must confess to reading a bunch of hippy blogs about unmedicated childbirth. Most of the time, I find inspiring stories about how women worked through their birthing experience with grace (and often a hefty dose of HypnoBabies).

One of today's posts was just too granola for me. I know it's wrong to laugh at another's expense. I know I'm teaching my daughter all kinds of bad lessons here. But I just can't help it when I come across stuff like this:

Shaking your head you moaned down low
hips thrust out, knees all bent
Mama Bear's rockin', poundin'
Heavy and Full.

Swayin' your belly, you danced that baby down
A bear mama, fierce, and loud.

You BIRTHED that baby, mama bear.

If you are so inclined, you can read the full poem here. I can assure you that I won't be writing poetry once BabyBear hits the scene.

Angry belly

Either my low mid-section is developing an emerging grimace or I am getting stretch marks. It seems that each day brings a new red squiggle below my barely-there belly button. Conveniently, I can't confirm with the naked eye, because I can't see the underside of my belly. Perhaps the mirror is playing tricks on me.

On the counting my blessings side of the balance sheet, I am pleased by the state of my belly button. PapaBear refers to it as the "divet" and likes to create a hollow sound by tapping it lightly. Regardless of its musical capabilities, a divet is still an "innie", not an "outie". Fingers crossed that I can retain this inward focus for another few months.

Burn, belly, burn

It's been ages since I last blogged. No good excuses from me...just that February has been a really busy month and I'd rather sleep than blog when given the choice.

PapaBear and I have been on vacation all week. Not a vacation that involves going farther away than Kleinburg, but a vacay nonetheless.

Our fave activities to date have included:
- Spending a morning at the McMichael Collection (sitting on each and every gallery bench to stretch out my endurance)
- Recovering our living room ottoman with baby-friendly foam and new microfiber
- Installing BabyBear's car seats (incorrectly, as it turns out...we now have appointments at the spiffy car seat installation centre next week)

In recent weeks, I've also been in full blown nesting mode. Our basement freezer is now home to more than a dozen casseroles, many ladles of soup, and a bounty of baked goods. When BabyBear arrives, we will be well fed.

There is a downside to this culinary commitment. While taking a pan of scones from the oven last night, I managed to forget the immense size of my belly and pulled the pan too close. Where my t-shirt had ridden up (a permanent condition nowadays), I have a red slash stretching across my pasty white skin. Ouch.