The Setting: The Hovel.
The Soundtrack: The What Women Want Soundtrack.
Steaming up the Oven: Cuban bread and kale chips.
The Scenario: Looks like I might have time to turn those lists blue after all.
If I hadn't let on all that much over the last few months, work has been hard on me.
Without my typical go-to of overabundant caffeine intake (not so good for the baby), the 5-or-6 hours of sleep I'd get between shifts some nights was not enough to drag me out of the expected state of forgetfulness, clumsiness, and confusion that is so often referred to as "pregnancy brain," so functioning on a mental level equal to or surpassing my peers was not happening.
Worse, balancing the ever-growing cocoon on my belly while repetitiously pushing, pulling, reaching, stooping, lifting, etc., as per my job description, was sending me home with back pain so intense that my moans and grimaces could have secured me a featured role in a commercial for the prescriptions blue-hairs use to combat crippling arthritis.
Thus, at my visit to the doctor last week, the nurse gave me a list of appropriate restrictions, like no lifting over 25 lbs.
Turns out my place of employment does not sanction "light duty" for injuries not caused on the job.
As my condition originated in the bedroom and not the backstock, I would have to go on medical leave.
So now I sit, praying my short-term disability claim will be approved so that I can continue to feed myself and the fetus, and surveying all that I can theoretically accomplish now that time is mine for the taking...at least for a little while.