Someone asked if I was pregnant in the playground yesterday. I get that a lot. And it’s not just a since-I-left-work-and-let-myself-go thing. Once, when the office lunch trolley man posed the question, I growled, “Nuh, just fat … pass the lasagne.” Years ago, a French work associate congratulated me on my happy news. I told him I was “just fat” too. Being French, he was mortified by his mistake. I felt sorry for the poor man, because I actually WAS pregnant that time, but concealing it to avoid giving my boss an aneurism for as long as possible. The charade became particularly harrowing and elaborate when I was forced to attend a team bonding weekend where the activities included quad-bike riding, go-karting and wine-tasting. Anyway, back to yesterday’s playground pregnancy (poor woman hasn’t had a good run, she got the two Japanese mums confused last week). When I denied being with child, she raved that I’m “glowing”. I put this “glow” down to one of two things – it’s either the Mona Lisa-like visage I assume when I’m knackered (Husband finds it quite fetching too); or I’m finally chilling out. I’m knackered from prolonged lack of sleep. I’ve entered an insomnia period. I’ll go for blissful weeks collapsing into bed, not thinking, dozing off peacefully. Then I’ll have these hyper periods where my brain won’t stop whirring at night (combined with things like kookaburras announcing the dawn prematurely at 4.30am or Husband walking into walls on his way to the bathroom after big nights out). Planning Sprog 1’s party kicked the latest bout off. My head was full of spider cupcakes and “what if the entertainer doesn’t turn up?” worries. Then I got stumped by what to buy my nieces and nephew for Christmas. That took up a good few hours. I’ve also expended a great deal of mental energy on whether we should buy a long dining table or a square one. You’d think such cerebral gymnastics would cancel out the “finally chilling out” second option. But no, I’ve definitely stepped things down a notch. I’m no longer addicted to www.domain.com.au, I’ve even stopped checking my Hawaiian real-estate email updates (oh, and the New York ones). It means I’m no longer frenetically drawing renovation plans for houses and apartments I’m never going to buy. Bizarrely, the way to measure my psychic distress is by my obsession with real estate. These days, I’m down to a leisurely flick through the local real estate section over breakfast on a Friday. I’ve relaxed into my new life of school drop-offs, morning teas, birthday lunches, long walks and chats in the playground. I could get used to this life (if Husband got a massive pay rise). But there’s noooooooo way I’m pregnant or planning it, despite any intrigue my expanding belly may be causing.
Tip: Never search “fetus” images on Google.
TONIGHT’S MENU: A quickie meal of sausages and mash, as I’m off to my new script-writing course.