Ol' Pointy and I went on a date with Sean to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art last night, where I stood in front of this Damien Hirst piece and smiled awkwardly at passersby who may actually have thought I was part of the exhibit.
At 28 weeks pregnant, I flew eleven hours to London, took a three-hour train ride up to the north of England to attend my grandmother's funeral, then roadtripped another eight hours up to Scotland with my dad and sister to drop the latter back at university in time for her final exams. Somebody page Richard Curtis, because this sounds like a Britcom movie I'd pay to see.
A few weekends ago, I sat down to make a baby registry. Wait, let me just rephrase that sentence: a few weekends ago, I sat down to make a baby registry and did not get up. For the entire 48 hours. Call it anxious first-timer nerves, call it "generally unable to purchase anything, eat anywhere, or make any other kind of decision for myself without first reading seven hundred reviews from other people," but I found the idea of making a baby registry more than a little daunting.
At 27 weeks, my pointy belly and I went down to San Diego to see my parents. (Also, I dyed my hair, as you may have noticed by the faintly Elvira-ish shade it seems to have turned since the last weekly photo. Apparently, L'Oreal and I have very different definitions of "dark brown.")
First of all, thank you so much for your lovely, kind words on my last post. I hope it doesn't sound too cheesy to say this, but each one of your comments meant so much to me and really did go such a long way to helping me feel better. I'm trying to write back to everyone properly to say thank you for your thoughts and condolences, so if I haven't got to you yet, rest assured that I will.
Last week, my friend Anna emailed me to tell me that her parents were cleaning out their house in Hong Kong and had sent her two large boxes of her stuff to sort out. Because I have known Anna since 1987—which is the longest I have known any of my friends and, actually, anyone who is not technically a family member—I was fairly sure I knew where she was going with this, and I was right.
"Pretty much everything in those boxes," she said, "is a letter from you."
Twenty three weeks, as far as I can remember—it happened a whole week ago, which means my new and fuzzy pregnancy brain has little to no memory of it—was fairly unmomentous. The twentysomething weeks, in fact, are whizzing by super quickly in a blur of super-quickness, much like my actual twenties, although I don't even have alcohol as an excuse for it this time.