Less than five weeks until my due date, and I have seen no signs of "nesting." Unless you count that time I dusted off the whisky shelf a few weeks ago. Also, I still think that puppies are way cuter than babies and that Babies R Us is more terrifying than enlightening. Fortunately, David is not freaking out at my lack of baby talk and fear of pram shopping. He seems to think I'll still be a great mother, even if I don't have my newborn's "going home outfit" laid out and ironed.
Maybe it's because we are living in a one-bedroom flat, and there's no nursery for which we need to choose paint colors and hang mobiles. Maybe it's because I'm annoyed that I won't finish be completing that novel before baby arrives.
Mostly, it's because we've got a lot bigger things to be stressing out about than a clean house and freshly crocheted booties.
Everyone wants to know what our plans are. I don't know. I can tell you that D hands in his dissertation a week before the baby is due, and we're free to move home once this kid gets a passport.
Trouble is, there's no way I'm moving back to America without health insurance. And because of the screwed-up nature of America's health system (or lack of), that means we can't move back until D has a job. (For various reasons, buying a family individual policy is pretty much not an option.) Do you know how hard it is to find a job from four thousand miles away? Talk about pressure on the poor man. A dissertation and a job ... and all because his wife is self-employed.
Fun times, eh? Kind of makes "nesting" low-priority. Also, it reminds me that I'd better request our absentee ballots ASAP ... and get that whisky collection ready for re-entry into the household in T-minus five weeks.
By the way, anyone wanna hire a freshly-minted MBA? I'll brag on him and all the awards he got this year in another post, but mostly for now, I'll tell you he's hard-working and adorable (and currently washing about fifty onesies because his wife hasn't started nesting).
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