It is 8:45 PM -- considerably past the time when my pregnant body told me I should already be in bed -- and I've successfully removed my contacts. I'm wearing my husband's shorts and a too-short T-shirt, and I'm getting ready for blessed sleep.
But instead of crawling into bed, I notice some yucky spots behind my bathroom sink's faucet. They've been there for months, yes, but at this moment, they're mocking me with their mildewy stamp of disapproval; I'm a terrible housekeeper. I grab a bottle of something that will remove all traces of mockery from those yucky spots, and start spraying.
I scrub. I move on to the sink proper, and scrub some more. It looks nice, I think, but more importantly, there are no more yucky spots to haunt my dreams tonight. I can rest.
Except, I remember: the bathtub is also sporting some proof of my housewifely laziness. And since the spray bottle and sponge are still in my grip, I head that way.
Except, I remember again: the drain in this tub has been clogged for a few days now. If I want to clean this and have it mean anything, I need to do surgery first. With a screwdriver and a pair of tweezers. It takes me awhile to remember where the tweezers are (on top of the microwave in the kitchen -- makes sense, right?), but when I finally find them, I am ready.
So, it is 9:10 PM, and I'm on my hands and knees in the dirty bathtub, digging for unmentionable masses of drain-clogging matter with an old pair of tweezers. And finding a strangely grotesque satisfaction in seeing what I can pull out next. Since I only gag twice in this process, I consider it a success. Especially when the job is done.
Spray bottle in hand (again), I douse the bathtub with lemon-scented suds, and get to scrubbing. The bottle pledges to contain a 'scrub-free' solution that will simply eat away at any foul accumulations in my tub, but it is lying. I must summon elbow-grease and shoulder-grease and every other kind of grease in order to make the tub perfectly clean, for perfectly clean it must be.
Standing up -- snapping joints in my legsbackknees as I rise -- I remember the laundry I need to switch out. I've already completed three loads of laundry since the girls went to bed, but piles of it are multiplying on my bed, and it is all pink. I think of how that will change. Three weeks. So soon?
Now, it is 9:45 PM and I am standing in the baby's nursery. There are paint squares lining the edge of the crib where they either match or contrast with his newly arrived bedding. There are drawers full of tiny onesies and footie pajamas. The window is open to allow a cleansing breeze -- so cool and fresh on this September evening. I look around and smile. Then I worry....
With only three weeks left, I wonder when my nesting instinct will kick in? Because so far...I've gotten nothing done.