We’re a week away from Halloween and last night I had a lovely thrill:
I had to climb underneath the sheet last night!!!!
I know it sounds a bit weird, but I was so incredibly excited that it was cold enough to do so, I couldn’t stand it. And it is nice to get cheap thrills that way.
The sheet made my night. It was so warm and cuddly and yet light. I am loving this new “colder” weather, and can only hope it lasts.
Today is also the first day I consciously realize we’ve left polite Libra behind and are surrounded by tricky little Scorpio. Somehow I like this October better–it somehow seems a little more ominous and spookier. Or maybe it’s just because Halloween is around the corner, and that makes everything better.
I have been thinking a lot about labor.
Not just about labor per se, but well…. I suppose that along with the spookiness comes the reckoning. And at 2 days shy of 34 weeks, the date is only looming larger and scarier.
My dreams seem to be insane and weird and about babies. I’m usually pregnant in my dreams, too, which is kinda funny. Last night I had a dream I only remember vaguely, but it involved Neiman Marcus’s shoe rack, and how the sale was going on and how all the lovely and expensive shoes still fit me, in my 8th month of pregnancy (so see? Indirectly baby-related).
That was a good, good dream.
I still remember the lovely MiuMius covered in silk –which I did try on at one point in time but deemed to be in the “suicidal shoes” category back then– that I could not stop staring as they sat on my feet. Oh… shoes. How I truly miss thee.
I’ve wanted to go shopping for a while now. Usually shopping was a thoroughly selfish activity, and one I could have medaled in. I knew what I wanted; I tried it on if need be; I handed over the Visa; no one got hurt in the process; life was sweeter by one lovely item (or ten, whatevs).
These days, shopping has become…. weird.
The other day I went to the Motherhood at the mall closeish to home and I caught a glimpse of myself in the changing room mirror.
“Changing room” had a whole new meaning as suddenly the cellulite took a back seat to my rather impressive –and dare I say, sexy– belly. For the first time in as many years as I’ve been champion shopper and yet a total coward when it comes to the harsh lighting of those changing rooms, I was able to fully appreciate and LIKE what I saw reflected on the mirror.
It didn’t really matter that the clothes would fit a small hippo, or that they were not exactly what you would call hip or drool-worthy during ordinary times — maternity wear will never be truly exciting, no matter what anyone says.
But somehow it didn’t matter. I looked GOOD. I like who I see these days in that mirror with the downward-cast lights aimed at making you feel like a whale.
That was no whale. It was just me. And it was quite lovely.
So shopping has become an activity that doesn’t seem to gratify me as much.
I’m less decisive. I feel I’ve lost my edge. I dream of new pots of alchemical wonders at Sephora or a new purse or lovely shoes, but they don’t seem to tug at me with the demonic power of before.
I’d rather nip away to Gymboree and wonder whether my belly is carrying a boy or a girl– and what kind of personality it will have. I wonder how big it will be and whether he will be into sports and cars like his daddy, or whether she will be a girly girl or a tomboy.
I see mini galoshes and sun hats and little cleats and tiny tap dancing shoes and that suddenly sounds like a better lure for my credit card than another bottle of perfume (been there), new shoes (they can wait until I’m not pregnant), more lipgloss (I swear the kid will come out with shiny lips, it’s probably eaten so much of what I put on) or a new purse.
I want a new purse.