Another thing: pregnancy infringes on my ability to write. It's not the words that are affected; it's my ideas. I've got none.
I've been reading more lately than I have in a long time. I think that goes along with the whole living-inside-myself thing I discussed yesterday. Books fit well in my bubble. I happily absorb whatever crosses over, from Howard Stern's Miss America to Jane Smiley's A Thousand Acres. I used to accomplish things while The Boss napped. Now I sit in the living room and read. Unlike The Partner, though, who is probably reading this while casting troubled sideways glances at our mess of a kitchen, I find value in these months of inaction. I feel like I'm storing energy and inspiration for when I'll really need it.
Writing, unlike reading, begins as an introspective thing but ends up having to fend for itself on the outside. I have no interest in that right now. I think about the fact that best selling author Jodi Picoult began her prolific career while pregnant with her first child and it just blows my mind. For me, producing anything right now would be next to impossible. Instead, I sit on ideas like a mother hen and wait, with no sense of urgency whatsoever, for them to hatch.