I’m chillin’ on the couch, attempting to stay still, while the men in my life run errands so we can pack up and head to Tokyo tomorrow. For a party. With some of our favoritest friends.
I just finished my fifteenth or sixteenth glass of water today. No joke. I’ve been to the potty more times than I can remember. I have contractions. Or Braxton-Hicks. Or whatever. The point is that they are regular and annoying, and I know its because I took a super long exercise-type walk with Jones in the jogging stroller the other day. And because I didn’t slow down for the hills but just puffed right through them, because I’m 25 and pregnant, not 45. And because I drink coffee and often forget that chocolate has caffeine, too. And because a shroud of HOT-NESS has descended upon Shizuoka. (I heard someone say the other day that she wants to name the humidity and treat it like a friend, since it feels like a wholly separate being has stepped into her life.)
I’m dehydrated, I think. And I’m young and foolish.
I often pick up Jones, all 25 or 30 pounds of him. And I carry him everywhere, though my belly is clearly protruding as much as a 9-months-pregnant Japanese woman’s. I climb hills and drink my black beverages. (Seriously, though, its less than a whole cup a day.) And now these annoying little friends have come to visit the past three days. They go away only after a night’s rest. Poor little guy in there. I have always wondered what contractions must feel like for the babe in the womb.
So I’m laying low. And drinking gallons. And bidding farewell to coffee for the summer months. (A very, very sad goodbye.)
And I’ll try to be better about holding Jones’s hand rather than hauling him up over my big bump. Though I do enjoy the hugs I get when he’s in that place. He’s been giving such good hugs lately.