Anxiety.

This past weekend, we took -- S. took, that is -- three more pee tests. All of them made the clear distinction that S. is no longer not pregnant. All told, four different pee sticks, four different brands, four different understated "Yes You Are!" symbols, blue lines, blue x's, blue stars, green clovers, and purple horseshoes.

I'm anxious now. Not sure if it's because I'm at work, away from S. I feel far more comforted and at ease while near her. It's hard to parse this feeling, I have the urge to lock S. in the apt. for the next 7 - 8 months to be on the safe side. I've got some lump in the throat, teary-eyed dreaminess of soft baby hands and feet and mouth and head, and so on, and the new understanding of the starry-eyed way in which I'll be looking at explosions of shit in my baby's diapers a few months from now. There's the little pilot light of fear in me, and a very resonant, inside-my-head voice, chanting its mantra, "What the fuck is going on? What did the two of you do?"

Surprisingly, I only had two beers all weekend. Counting Friday, I also had 6 glasses of wine and 1 glass of champagne. I've also had 2 cigs, both illicitly, and by illicitly I mean, S. will never know until reading this, which is likely soon. The cigs weren't as great as they needed to be for a satisfying tobacco send-off, but I believe I can space out my final cigarettes at greater and greater intervals.

It could be an interesting exercise to track how much I drink over this next 7 - 8 months -- Bridget Jones Diary style (the book, not the movie) -- but I could end up on the receiving end of carpal tunnel after typing all those zeros.

My concentration is a bit shot, as well, barely concentrating at work, hard to see things through to the end. anything at work. So scattered, surfing the net is even hard to concentrate on. All day at work, I've been jumping from project to project, making no real headway, looking wide-eyed and busy I imagine.

It's just unfocused energy, I think. The initial WOW! of being pregnant, has turned into hurry up and wait.

To do / To research
Bella bands -- to keep S. in fashionable clothes.

Radiohead Lullabies for the ironically detached hipster newborn. (We do live in BKLN.)

Interesting sexual positions for the later months, maybe even with some What's Happening To My Body style pencil illustrations, so I can waggle my eyebrows Groucho style while pointing at the cold, anatomical picture, while describing the merits of pregnant sex. I guess I could waggle them anyway, though.