Exciting new things in this picture: Fence, grass seedlings, manicure.
33 weeks must be the "feeling all the feelings" portion of pregnancy, at least if all the feelings I've been feeling this week are any indication. The main feeling I've been feeling, unfortunately, is oh my god, I'm going to be a terrible mother, which stems from the fact that over the weekend—when Sean was away in Seattle with his brother, watching something like 74 baseball games in a three-day period, which I enouraged eagerly because dude, ENJOY THAT LAST HURRAH—I managed to:
* Paint a piece of furniture with what I didn't realize—until I started to get just a wee bit light-headed—was oil-based paint, causing me to spend most of Saturday googling things like "oil-based paint + birth defects" and "oil-based paint have I harmed my baby" and "effects of fumes from oil-based paint + 33 weeks pregnant," until I got myself into such a state about it that I couldn't even google anymore. (I was only painting for about 20 minutes, in the garage with the door wide open, wearing a mask and gloves, so chances are it's probably going to be fine, but still.)
* Accidentally scoop the cat litter without even thinking about it—I don't even know why I did this, it's not like I was ever a paragon of kitty-litter-changing before I got pregnant—causing me to spend most of Sunday googling things like "scooped kitty litter do I have toxoplasmosis?" and "33 weeks pregnant + cat poop + toxoplasmosis" until it got to the point where I couldn't even look at my poor cat anymore without assuming she'd ruined any chance Hamish might have of a normal, toxoplasmosis-free life.
* Totally put my back out doing what I thought was light gardening—a little planting, a little weeding, a little mulching—but which was apparently too much physical activity for my poor off-balance body, a fact it made me screamingly aware of for most of Sunday and all of Monday. (I also convinced myself that if I hadn't got toxoplasmosis from the kitty litter, I'd probably got it from contaminated soil, so that was a party.)
And all of this culminated, on Sunday night, in a sense of general regret that I hadn't been "better" during this pregnancy—by, I don't know, eating only sustainably-farmed kale and drinking organic rainwater distilled from the tears of Benedectine monks who all had excellent relationships with their mothers—and I found myself wailing to Sean that I wished I could go back to the beginning and do it "properly," by which I guess I meant not going to Chipotle so often and oh, it was so silly, but that's how I felt. And then a few days later, we went to a newborn parenting class with little fake dolls that we had to diaper and hold and swaddle and honestly, swear to god, I was so bad at diapering and swaddling and even holding—I WAS BAD AT HOLDING A BABY—that I just thought oh my god, what am I even DOING thinking I can be someone's mother, and yeah, it's been a real riot to be around me for the past week, I can tell you that.
I think I've come through the worst of it now, helped by a) the toxoplasmosis test my doctor agreed to let me take on the condition that it would "ease my mind," b) frequent reminders to myself that hey, look, I'm eating a salad! I'm drinking a shitload of water! I'm buying an organic apple! Maybe I'm not the monstrous ogre of a mother I thought I was!, and c) the comfort that at least Sean was paying attention in the swaddling part of the class. Sean was actually really good at the swaddling part of the class, funnily enough, which even makes me feel better about all those visits to Chipotle. Clearly watching that many burritos get wrapped had some sort of influence.