random thoughts about pregnancy and philandering artistic husbands

the countdown is getting scarily close to D-day. a week left before my due-date. there are still conflicting parts of my brain which fervently believe that a) there's not really a baby in there or b) that i will be pregnant forever (which would be OK, really, as long as i didn't get any bigger. every week i think, nah, i can't possibly get more enormous, and then poof! i get more enormous...)

projects remaining to be completed prior to arrival of parasite (apart from the metaphysical ones, like "acquire large amounts of patience and wisdom" and "reconcile self to complete mindfuck of having children") are to spray my fruit trees with horticultural oil in the vain hope that that will protect them from next summer's onslaught of evil buggies, finish painting mural in the bebe's room, and finish the bebe quilt. oh, and probably getting another little pedal bin for bebe's room would be a good idea too. "nesting" is such a euphemism; it sounds so cosy, when actually it means things like "buy a pedal bin into which you will be chucking your kid's smelly crap-stained nappy wipes." hmm.

the last two nights have been a cinematic lesson in the artistic value of having a philandering husband: last night we watched a biography of frida kahlo, and tonight i watched "sylvia," gwyneth paltrow/daniel craig film about sylvia plath and ted hughes. i have to say, if i was going to be made miserable (and by extension, more tortured and creative) by one of the two philandering husbands, i'd so go for ted hughes/daniel craig any day. diego rivera looked like an obese toad. he must have had one impressively charming personality, is all i can say, to be such a successful seducer of women. (whereas frida kahlo really was quite lovely, i think; she totally overexaggerated the unibrow in her self-portraits and in the photos at least had very delicate features). plus ted hughes had his whole sexy working class northern lad accent thing going as well. i don't know about the whole being-married-to-a-poet business, though; that sounds kind of exhausting. that said, i really, really don't buy the myth that an artist must be unhappy and/or alcoholic in order to be productive, and i wonder what the relative proportion of mental illness among professional artists to the general population is.

ok time to frapper le sac; i only had one two hour nap today so am completely wiped :)