So Karen is getting very happy in her new role as mother-to-be. She’s reading enormous pregnancy books, complaining that she hasn’t got a bump yet, and trying to get out of household chores wherever possible by saying “My book says that you’re supposed to take care of me while I’m pregnant.” My retort is usually to invent a quote, supposedly taken from my book, which says that I shouldn’t take any shit from her.
Contrarily, I’m aware that once the baby is born, and indeed in the months leading up to it, I’m going to be so incredibly busy taking care of a round, screaming monster, that I won’t have any time to myself. So I’m immersing myself into my usual hedonistic and selfish pursuits with gusto – a kind of farewell to Quality Me Time, if you will.
As a result, occasionally she’ll interrupt me when I’m concentrating, and say something random and baby-related. I won’t instantly make the connection, and subsequently I think I possibly come across as being a bit forgetful.
“A what? A baby? Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.”
I’m looking around the house at all the junk that’ll need clearing. Fragile items eventually need moving to higher locations. Entire rooms, or portions of them, need clearing to make way for baby crap. I don’t know how we’ll manage.