Stop This RV, I Want to Get Off

New plan: Finish this effing WIP and then set it aside before it drives me crrrrazy.

Accept that I will not be “winning” Camp this season but neither will I be packing a houseful the day before closing because I was too busy writing to prepare for the inevitable.

Write something else. For fun. Because this used to be fun before I got stuck in the nightmare of this particular story. Maybe something fluffy and romantic where my “prep” work includes staring at pictures of attractive celebrities and yet more attractive interior design to “get ideas” and “flesh out my characters”.

Nap more. Seriously. Because… I’m pregnant. And there is no work more strenuous that building a human being from scratch.

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Yes.

Who decided that camping pregnant was a good idea? Oh, me? I did that? Whoops, my bad.

Losing the Groove

Today my son napped for 2 hours and 40 minutes. Guess how many words I got written in that amount of time! Just guess!!

0.

0 words.

I ate lunch. I did the dishes. I napped. And that, friends, is a productive day for me. Being pregnant is seriously harshing my vibe, yo. It’s crushing my spirit. And my bladder. And with a minimum caffeine intake, there’s no more magic elixir to keep me up nights (or days, apparently) writing my heart out.

I’m over here like, thank God I’m not puking my heart out because that’s the best I can expect these days.

Any other pregnant writers out there losing their groove?

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Do You Even GLOW the Second Time Around?

I am Facebook friends with a woman about to give birth and I almost envy her her naivet√©. She’ll lose that soon enough. Today she posted the most beautiful picture of herself in full belly bloom standing in the forest, gazing upward toward a hazy, half-obscured sun. Absolutely gorgeous. Oh honey, enjoy it now because hell awaits you.

I’ve been reading on various mommy websites about second children and how very different the experience is while watching my husband’s cousin half-way through her second pregnancy. Things I’ve noticed/read: No one gives a shit about your second pregnancy like they did your first. Life is much less magical and full of hope and possibility. Homegirl does not have the energy for photo shoots and has zero interest in being beautifully pregnant and glowing (not that she glowed the first time either. Or ever. She’s not exactly the model of positive pregnancy here, just the only woman I currently know on her way to kid #2).

So when I think, “Yeah, it might be nice to have another,” I also remind myself that this isn’t a do-over of the first. This isn’t me taking naps and being waited on by my husband and registering for all the things and cooing over every little tiny sock. Well, wait… no, I might still coo. Those things are adorable. I just think it’s really important to remember that I have a Tasmanian Devil of a toddler and as magical as my first pregnancy may have felt, a second one might be more of a pain in the ass.

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Those tiny socks, though!

 

Time to Have Another Baby

The gossip today is all about my husband’s cousin who’s about 3 months pregnant with her second child, the first of whom is 8 months older than my son. We don’t know this of course because my in-laws are all secret-tellers and gossip-mongers and we get this update secondhand (or rather fourthhand if you’re counting the number of hands held to mouths to shield the telling of said secrets).

Because I so badly want to be a good person, I reacted pleasantly because babies are wonderful news, especially for couples who desperately want them. But because people find comfort in patterns and because Old World old people are extremely competitive and because by nature most in-laws are demanding of grandbabies, by my baby math* I have until early November to get myself knocked up so I can give birth sometime around Augustish so that my second child is yet again 8 months younger than hers.

This way, my mother-in-law can have the youngest grandchild and my husband’s cousin can continue to speak to me like she invented motherhood.

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*Baby math: That thing where you count 9 to 10 months forward from every time you have sex, protected or not, to see if you could handle a baby at that point in time.