the art of unproductivity

New Sunday tradition at the Lo house: False Labor! It really is a fantastic way to spend one's time, highly recommended. At least this time I wasn't dumb enough to go to the hospital only to be sent home. And I ate my protein. There were contractions, all day, strong enough to be timed. But they were erratic. Nervewracking. And essentially pointless.

I'll admit that I am hitting the wall as far as wanting this kid out of me. I realize that I still have a good 2 1/2 weeks until the actual due date, so my impatience isn't fully warranted. The more reasonable side of me acknowledges, too, that I should be savoring these last few moments of only having one child to look after, as opposed to one child and a newborn. Even more whining, even less sleep. BUT. Everything is bulky, sore, uncomfortable. I can no longer do my super-hero tricks. It's exasperating to drop something on the floor, but downright insurmountable to drop a favorite shirt in the dark alleyway between the washing machine and the water heater. I mean, are you kidding me?

False labor is especially frustrating to me because it inspires me to do the exact opposite of what is smart, productive, or zen. Instead of focusing on other things around me to make time progress at a reasonable rate, instead of accepting that true labor will come when it's time, I focus completely on the labor, forgo all normal activity. The hours and minutes become an oozing puddle of slime. K.Lo amps up the whine factor, J.Lo and I become nervous wrecks. It is a most unfortunate way to spend the weekend.

Today I vow to:

run 2 loads of laundry

dust the living room

finish cleaning the bathroom

watch Desperate Housewives, decide whether it will make the cut

take Bug for a walk

or something to that effect.

May I only continue to be so wise.