I am, with significantly increased frequency, getting the shit kicked out of me – or, more appropriately and perhaps literally – my innards are getting the shit kicked out of them.
BabyQ is an active little thing, despite the inherent, but apparently not inherited, laziness of both her parents. Perhaps she’s trying to kick start us into doing more than discussing plans for her room and necessities. Perhaps she’s in cahoots with my mother, who has taken to emailing us lists of things we’ll need [much of which, we very surprisingly already have]. Perhaps she’s just cranky because the [12 pound] cat has once again been sleeping on me at night, even though I’m laying on my side and make a rather precarious perch.
Regardless, babyQ is active and my mother is getting angst. What neither seem to grasp is the extent of the perverseness of both Mr.Q and I in the face of added pressure – whether it be by email, phone call or internal abuse.
Besides, we’re both way too busy watching for my stomach movements to worry about actually choosing a paint colour or a matching lamp.