Please don’t scold me for being hard on myself, I mean, I did say “sometimes.” Self-deprecation wise, that’s a big step for me, you know.

Yesterday, I felt motivated. I was all blissed out on having actually left my house two days in a row, and I felt like I could DO things. I felt empowered. So I got all the dishes done, and the sink and counters scrubbed. I wiped down the table and swept the ENTIRE main floor. I pulled out the mop and tackled the worst sticky spots. I put away every single toy on the main floor and tidied every single room. I gathered all the dirty laundry, carried it down to the basement, and started putting laundry through. I folded three loads and carried them to the rooms they needed to be put away in.

By the time bedtime rolled around the main floor of my house looked fanTAStic, and I was at least halfway to caught up on the laundry to boot.

I confess, I started strutting a little. As much as an eight-months-pregnant woman can anyway. I gave myself a few verbal pats on the back where Neil could hear me (and join in, like the smart boy he is), and I climbed into bed to do some much deserved vegging out with one of my favourite books (The Way of Kings – Brandon Sanderson) and one of my favourite guys (the aforementioned Neil).

That’s about when the contractions started. Not serious ones, of course. Not the, oh-heck-we-better-rush-to-the-hospital-kind. But definitely the, um-maybe-we-should-pack-the-hospital-bag-in-case-these-get-any-worse kind. They were right on the cusp between uncomfortable and painful, they didn’t get any worse than that, but it was a MISERABLE evening.

And I could only keep saying, I did this to myself. One, because it’s true, and two, I knew that it was better if I said it than if Neil did. I had overdone it and was paying the price.

So today, I’m looking at the projects I’d like to get done before the baby arrives (21 days and counting!), and I’m reminding myself that I don’t have to do it all at once the way I tend to do. I can do a little here, rest a little there, and pace myself throughout the day. And that’s a hard thing for me to do, because I tend to have two modes 1. ALL 2. NOTHING. It’s something I need to learn in life. How to slip into that grey area between the two and find a way to live there. To not be either doing so little that I hate myself or doing so much that I hurt myself.

I’m thinking of going back to my once-upon-a-time-ago pattern of reading a chapter for every chore accomplished. Baby steps. Balance.

Now excuse me, I really should pack that hospital bag. Just in case I continue being an idiot (it’s all too possible, I’m afraid) . . .

And in a way, it totally was. The placenta had moved. We laughed with the ultrasound technician (lovely lady) about how the baby kept mooning her and keeping the gender question as a firmly unsolved mystery. There was some frustration, loads of disappointment, and a lot of promised phone calls and text messages and facebook updates to let everyone who was dying to know that, well, they’d have to keep dying to know.

But I was in good spirits the rest of the day. We were surprised with Emma and Becca and we loved it, so by golly, we would love it again. The placenta was out of the way – suddenly, there are options open to us that were quite firmly closed before. Options, wonderment, surprises! Such fun!

Except, not so much. By the time evening rolled in I was a total wreck. I walked into the room that we’re preparing for the baby and tried to figure out why I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. I mean, the news had been good news. No life-threatening pregnancy condition! A healthy baby! What more did I need? And the truth is, there was no good answer to that question, because I’m one of those annoyingly lucky gals who has oodles more than she needs. So I faced up to the fact that it was about my wants, and I was having myself an emotional temper tantrum because I wanted things I couldn’t have.

I wanted to know how to decorate the baby’s room. I wanted to know if I need to go shopping for blue things because our storage bins are full of pink and purple. I wanted to know if I could send my baby girl stuff to my little sister, who’s expecting her daughter around the same time I’m expecting my . . . baby. I like to know things. I like to plan. And because of my incredible mooning baby, I can’t this time.

I was spoiled with Claira. We found out she was a girl as early as it’s possible to know. We named her early, and it was amazing to be able to call her by name while she was still in the womb. I wanted that again, still want it, but I can’t have it. And for all my self-reflection and struggling and striving to make myself a better person, there’s still a part of me that is really immature, and deeply ridiculous. So I had myself a little cry and Neil ordered us pizza for dinner that night, and after I got it out of my system I felt like a complete idiot.

Maybe I’m not getting what I want, but I know I’m getting what I need. And maybe that includes a bit of humbling. Besides, what are the odds? We are SO having another girl.

Please tell me I’m not the only fully grown adult still having tempter tantrums . . .