The Fetus-Induced Carpal Tunnel gets worse each day. It becomes increasingly harrrrder to tyyype. When fine motor skills are needed, it feels like I’ve strapped a squid to my wrist and asked it to perform the Beguine.
My doctor’s recommendations aren’t working. I’m drinking like a fish, elevating my feet (holy dromedary, Batman! I’ve never seen ankles so huge!), and wearing a wrist brace. Nada. It’s as if my hand went to the dentist and the Novocain just won’t wear off.
The shower went off without any major hitches. It was your standard girlie tea-party-esque (read: no martinis. Darn.) affair. People ooohed and aaahhhed and touched my gut WITHOUT PERMISSION. I knew it was coming, so I plastered a fake smile on my face and tried not to deck people for it.
People appeared to have fun. At the very least, they plastered on that same fake I-don’t-mind-you-touching -me-in-ways-that-would-be-totally-creepy-were-there -not-an-alien-being-kicking-me-in-the-ribs smile.
People were kind enough to keep the pink and the frills to a minimum on the gifts. Sophie only had to be restrained once on issues relating to the backyard, something that I think is commendable. (It was along the lines of: “No, Sophie. You may not wind the hose around the tables and through the chairs so that you can water my plants and heckle me in front of my guests.” After that, I slyly hid the hose just to be sure. Mamma didn’t raise no dummy.)
I washed the baby clothes and set up the changing station this afternoon. I put sheets on the crib. Wow. There really is a baby coming.
I just pick her up from the hospital when she’s fully cooked, right? Sort of like Applebees car-side service. Right? Right?