Can't say I didn't bring this on myself. A month ago I was feeling all right, knowing I had a lot to do, but trying to take advantage of not wanting to die. So instead I sat on the couch, put my feet up and wasted brain cells on escape-to-someone-else's-reality TV.
Eight weeks left, and the nursery is still a junk room. Friends are throwing me a shower in two weeks, and I have no idea where we'll put everything. I'm too exhausted to think about it, much less take action on it.
Since I announced the pregnancy, first thing everyone told me was that infant childcare is hard to find in our town, and I should get on waiting lists right away. Uh, yeah. About that ... Of course, it doesn't help that right after telling me that, they also tend to recite a whole bunch of childcare provider horror stories. I know those stories are supposed to light some fire under my (ever-widening) ass to start diligently researching options. Instead, I'm apparently paralyzed with fear and unable to even take the step of picking up the phone and calling around to see who has openings. I mean, why bother if they're all going to secretly neglect/abuse/drug my child? Some folks have even suggested finding a nanny on Craigslist. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! If I could find a prospective Craigslist nanny who demonstrated even a remedial understanding of spelling and grammar, maybe. Call me a paranoid fuddy-duddy, or just totally naive, but I'm really hoping to not have to rely on nanny cams for peace of mind.
To do:
1) Find the elusive second wind
2) Hire Mrs. Doubtfire
3) Invent infant teleportation before this baby tries to come out the old-fashioned way
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