Apparently ‘not working’ for me means ‘doing everything in the house while The Daddy watches NYPD Blue’. This isn’t a significant other rant – it’s commentary on how I fail at relaxing. Day 3 of being off work and I’ve assembled a six-drawer dresser and changing table, reorganized all of my clothes, removed the suspended closet doors and tracks from the guest room, made 2 batches of ice cream for baby party next weekend, made us breakfast in bed, cleaned the kitchen 2x, made dinner for us and a friend, gone to brunch, did baby and grocery shopping, and planted some new succulents. Relaxation? What?

Every time I sit for more than a half hour, I start to panic and go over my to-do list in my head! I need a lobotomy and a bowl of ice cream.