This morning just after midnight, on the way home from work, I found myself whistling Die Fledermaus. I asked myself, Why am I whistling Die Fledermaus? I don't really like Die Fledermaus, it's after midnight, I spent every waking hour either commuting or working on an irrelevant and arcane project, my bra is cutting into the flesh of my ribcage, Jeff is going fifty miles an hour on a wide-open freeway, my anemia results came back not good and I am belching up little reminders of my carne asada super burrito.
But still I was whisting. I was downright cheerful, in fact.
Is this some sort of normal hormonal gift that kicks in at 28 weeks? If so, I'll take it. (Now, if someone could please investigate the cause of my utter inability to concentrate on anything for more than twenty consecutive seconds, I would be much obliged. I would investigate it myself, but, you know, the twenty-second limit is a bit of a hindrance.)
*Now for a little gushiness; readers beware*
Jeff, as the perfect ending to a seventy-hour, six-and-a-half-day workweek, had the idea that we should go shopping last Sunday evening. We had a few post-Christmas things to take care of--returns, some belated gifts to find for friends--and I thought that was what he was talking about. I was not, um, enthusiastic.
As we're trudging around in the cold of the outdoor mall, me wishing wholeheartedly that we had stayed home with TiVo, Jeff said, "Where do we buy baby clothes?" And, magically, a Gymboree store appeared not ten yards in the distance. I didn't have time to think, to talk myself out of it, and Jeff whisked me through the door. And...
He was entranced.
Tiny little clothes, soft and sweet, with charming stitching and details and colors. He kept picking things up--tees and onesies and bibs and hats--then nudging me, a look of smiling wonder on his face. Neither of us even tried to resist. We left the store with our overflowing bag, giggling at random intervals as we drove off. It was a delight, seeing him so delighted, and so expectant.