As they say here in the south, "Whew fellas. I'm whooped."
But life can't stop just because I'm huge. I gather everything in one spot and plant myself in front of the tv with an I Love Lucy marathon. A pile of unfolded laundry to my left. Bills to be paid on the floor to my right. A big glass of water on the side table. This is how I work. With as little movement as possible.
Mabel doesn't care that I'm doing my best. She doesn't care that my tendons are about to snap, or that getting out of a chair almost requires a forklift. All she knows is that I've seriously fallen down on my most important job: playing with her. She voices her outrage by slinging her toys at me, running across my bill pile, and knocking over the clean laundry. When all else fails, she stands in my face and barks. Loudly.
Some people play Bach for their babies cognitive development, but I let my bratty schnauzer bark repetitively within inches of my stomach. I figure Jane may as well get used to it.