My dog is pissed off. Why? Because we've had handymen, electricians, and other interlopers tromping through the house all day long. I suppose you could call this barrage of service calls "nesting," but as I've mentioned before, I think "nesting" is nothing more than "running out of time." It seems to be just the same feeling as when you've got a big work deadline approaching and you have to put the pedal to the metal. Or the petal to the medal, which is less effective. The angry hound is currently locked in the laundry room because he is about to lose his (rather small) mind.
I had an OB appointment today, and the cervix is still locked up tight, but the doctor pointed out that the baby's head is way down there. It's not engaged, she said, but he is no longer floating freely the way he used to, apparently. No weight gain, no swelling, good blood pressure, good fetal heartbeat, good fundal height. My appointments with this OB average about four minutes long, even at the end. It's different from the last time around. I've got a hospital tour scheduled for tonight, mainly so I can figure out if there's wireless access there and where they keep the Spr.ite and graham crackers. Vic.odin doesn't do me right if my tummy is empty.
So.ren is completely hilarious these days, and I'm feeling preemptively nostalgic for being able to focus on him alone. He has hit the language explosion phase and spouts off sentences left and right. He got a haircut before Christmas and now looks like a little kid (vs. a baby). He persistently requests waffles at all hours of the day and, when told that waffles are only for breakfast, sometimes asks, "Wafflecake?" Whatever that is, it sounds delicious. And forbidden.