I've spent my entire life stubbornly and to a fault taking care of myself. If it is to be it is up to me, the ten most important two-letter words. I've exploited what it means to be a Type-A personality. Always in control, always calling the shots, always following the plan (mine, of course).
Until now. Enter my alter-ego. I didn't plan it, I didn't think about it, it just...happened.
Plan? What plan? It's like my pregnancy is happening to someone else, it's fuzzy and I can't seem to recognize that I need to prepare for this life-altering event. Independent? Forget about it. Ask my husband, forced to be my personal butler and having to make every decision because I've forgotten how to do that. He's currently in Mexico, and I am lost. I hate him for this (despite knowing it's wrong to begrudge him this guy time).
My confirmation that this is really happening? I haven't cleaned my house in weeks. Weeks. Scott's been helping out, but former Courtney would be spending this solo Saturday doing it her way to ensure everything is sparkling clean. Nope. This Courtney is wandering aimlessly around the house because she can't decide what to do today. I haven't even picked up my breakfast dishes yet.
On the positive side, I am noticeably more relaxed. I may even go so far as to say I'm "unaffected". By anything. With one exception. Work. Fewer things ruffle my feathers, but I've otherwise seemed to maintain my former self. It takes more effort these days, which might explain why the peversely opposite is occuring in my personal life, but I'm still exploring that theory.
I don't know this person, and frankly she frightens me. Is this my body's natural response to calming the crazy while carrying our child? I sure hope so, because I can't stand myself some days.
The days I bother to care, of course.