“I hate writing,” Dorothy Parker once observed. “I love having written.”
It’s a pretty apt summary of my own on-again-off-again relationship with blogging. I haven’t managed to consistently keep one up for some time, but it’s an endeavor that serves to keep Ye Olde Writer Toolbox sufficiently sharpened to be worth the effort, I think.
And so, without further ado, here I am. Twenty-nine years old, 37 weeks along with my first full-term pregnancy, bored out of my mind, and newly unemployed, as I just recently left my awesome job at the Autism Learning Center, where I was a behavioral therapist until a few weeks ago. Now I spend a lot of time surveying my disappearing waistline and my feet growing to Brobdingnagian proportions, watching endless Netflix, and being bored out of my ever-loving mind waiting for my son, who is taking his damn sweet time about it, to get here.
My latest effort is learning to cook. I don’t have much else to do. Tonight I made an EPIC version of this chicken avocado soup recipe from Mama Miss, which was a big hit. And since I’m a pretty much God-awfully terrible cook married to a talented gourmet chef, anything I make going over big (or having seconds requested) is enough of a rarity around here that I’m definitely going to put this recipe in the regular rotation.
On the pregnancy front, I’m miserable and ready to pop, but Baby C doesn’t seem to be as determined as I am to be done with this whole gestating thing. I found this book from my childhood on Amazon and ordered it:
and have been assiduously reading it to my uterus, all to no avail. A friend pointed out that perhaps it is too lowbrow for my son, who seems like he might appreciate, I don’t know, Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra more. Still, certain sentiments expressed within the book seem very apt.
Other than that, not much new here. Signing out with a very heavy-with-child heave and a sigh.