Seeking Your Pity: Weather Edition

I'd like you all to feel bad for me, so I'm just going to post this photo of the weather forecast around here:

You see that bright spot on Thursday? Where it's a whole 19 degrees (that's Fahrenheit, Aramis) ABOVE ZERO? I've already promised myself I will get outside and go for a walk. I could use the fresh air. And let me tell you, at 19 degrees with a 20% chance of snow, the air is pretty freaking fresh. And yes, you are correct. That little red box in the corner DOES say there's a windchill warning (FYI it's currently sitting at 35 to 45 degrees BELOW ZERO). Which means it's actually unsafe for your skin to be out in the air uncovered for even a very short amount of time. Why do I live somewhere that the air is so cold it's actually dangerous? I don't have any idea. I don't even snowmobile! Or ice fish. Or even ski very well. I need to move. Or at least take a vacation to somewhere you can't throw a pot of boiling water out the back door and have it freeze mid-air (yes, it works. Welcome to fifth grade science class in Minnesota.)

There's not much else going on around here--I mean, how much else can you really do when you have to put effort in to surviving your air. I'm feeling big and lazy. I'm washing my hands a million times a day to try to keep from getting sick. And I'm putting on hand lotion two million times a day so my hands stay all in one piece and avoid cracking and bleeding. The rest of the time I'm trying to work up to the motivation to do anything other than lie on my couch watching Netflix from the time I walk in the door after work until I go to bed at 9:00 p.m. I need a hobby. Or to join a gym. At least a few days a week, I drag my butt downstairs to half-heartedly jog (playing fast and loose with that word) on the treadmill for two episodes of 30 Rock. I know, I know, I'm practically a fitness goddess at this point. I mean, I'm not quite Jane with her half marathon and record-setting swim times (while pregnant), but I'm pretty freaking close. Notice I did say TWO episodes of 30 Rock.

I've still avoided getting stretch marks on my belly, but they are starting to show up on my boobs. Bobby's not complaining though, because my boobs have at least doubled in size. And since I haven't actually bought any bras to accommodate their enormous new mass, I'm just going for the Sofia Vergara look--if she were short, white, and chubby instead of hot and Colombian.

We also finally decided we should do something about the nursery. So we moved around some shelves in the closet and bought two cube storage shelves and some fabric box organizers. So still nothing for baby to wear, sleep in, or poop in. Or, you know, anything to put it in the car to bring home from the hospital. My mom dug out my old sock monkey and it looks really adorable sitting on top of the cube shelves. So there's that.

I had this kind of crazy idea that it would be really nice if we had everything in the nursery done and ready when I was 30 weeks in case something happened and I went early. And I wouldn't be so big that I could actually help put together a crib, or bend over far enough to get stuff out of the washer (this is getting tough already--having a big belly and short arms are just a terrible combination). I guess it could still happen, but given our lack of motivation this far, I'm thinking not.

Bobby had a bit of panic attack when I mentioned I'll be full term in 12 weeks. He began freaking out about everything we still need to do and get and learn. I mean, it was actually kind of funny, because that's where I was about 12 weeks ago. He actually read a chapter of a baby book that night.

Someday soon we'll get on the same page, buckle down, and get stuff done. But probably not tomorrow though. I don't want the air to freeze off my face.