7/10/03
Last night Allie and I were outside blowing bubbles and using her Scooby Doo fishing rod to cast a tiny, orange rubber fish on to the roof of our neighbor's house. While we did this, Deb weeded the walkway. A little weeding will suck the life right out of a lady when she's over eight months pregnant.
Deb kept maintaining that she should do this sort of stuff while she still could. She's convinced that in a matter of days she will be completely convalescent with swollen legs compounded, a week or two later, by a Cesarean wound the size of a manhole.
I'm convinced that she's merely posturing to extend the length of her post-partum recovery. It's not working. You see, I subscribe to the pioneer method of childbirth. Here's how it goes: a woman crouches in a secluded, wooded area and quietly, efficiently gives birth to her baby. After severing the umbilical cord with her teeth she collects her child (along with all the resultant fluids and tissue to be converted into soap products, fertilizer and animal feed) and returns to her cabin to finish the toilet scrubbing and floor mopping she had begun right before she went into labor.
Deb is a huge fan of the "Little House" books so I'm pretty sure she's in step with me when it comes to this topic.
I received an unexpected email a few days ago. I responded but never received a reply. I was probably guilty of being a bit over-enthusiastic in my response (which actually translates to many as being frighteningly peculiar teetering on the brink of just plain creepy). I'm actually thinking it was more a matter of saying the wrong thing. I wish I knew which it was. Not that I'd change what I wrote. It's just a missed opportunity and I hate watching those things whiz past me so resignedly.