It seems that I am quite pregnant, oh quite pregnant indeed. In the past few days, I have been forced to face some harsh realities. Such as, yes, actually, I would like to sit down. Preferably with my feet up. Thank you, yes, I do need help lifting that, moving that, getting that out to my car. Yes, the laundry can wait in the basement until someone other than me is available to carry it up two flights of stairs; and if you could change the light bulb at the bottom of the basement stairs while you are at it, that would be great, because no, I have no business climbing up on a chair to reach that. And no, Mia, I'm sorry, but I cannot swing you in circles over my head or run around the nursery with you or even give you a bath.
I am not at all accustomed to asking for help or waiting for other people to do things for me, and it aggravates me, makes me angry even. But right now, there are a lot of things I just flat out can't do, and even more things that I could do, but have gotten through even my thick melon-headed skull that it would be a bad idea. So if anyone needs me, I'll be on the couch eating ice cream (blessed, blessed ice cream does not give me heartburn) for the next three to six weeks.