I picked up a tube of this on clearance the other day at Target. I’ve had the worst chapped lips this winter and nothing has helped them for long. But this stuff is amazing! I saw a difference in them the very first day I wore it. They are soft, not peeling, no longer cracked and hurting. LOVE this stuff! Must. Buy. More!

(And when I find something I love, I want to spread the love to my friends!)

I bought it a week ago, when I bent my obstetrician’s modified bed rest rules long enough to slip away on a rogue journey through Target. But that little box somehow managed to disappear after I brought the bag into the house. Unfortunately, that’s happening with greater frequency around here as I’m forced to delegate more tasks to other family members.

If you’ve ever had to color your own hair—and I say “had to” because who wouldn’t rather pay someone to do the honors if you could afford it?—you understand why it’s crucial that I find that box of L’oreal today. The instructions say to wash your hair 24 hours before you dye it, so if I don’t color today, I have to wait another day. And since aging, salt-and-pepper roots don’t really “go” with the youthfulness of a big, pregnant belly, I want to get the job done before seeing some old friends tomorrow.

By the way, please don’t email me to say that you think it’s awful for an expectant mom to expose her fetus to chemicals for vanity’s sake. I’ve researched it and the risk of harm is virtually non-existent. It’s a mental health issue for me: if mama ain’t pretty, mama ain’t happy. And if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

Ever since having a preterm labor scare a few weeks ago, I’ve been ordered to take it easy. That means no shopping, cleaning, lifting, or exercise. All that relaxing sounds nice, doesn’t it?

I can live without the exercise part—how many times in life does a couch potato like me get a free pass from forced movement? But as the days tick by, the novelty of resting wears thin, and the more disorganized my house becomes. And let me tell you, it wasn’t all that organized to start with.

My husband’s a great guy, but Mr. Mom he’s not. Like most men, he just doesn’t notice things that need to be done around the house. For him, the shower doesn’t scream “Clean me!” until the mildew is thick as a rainforest, and the floors never need mopping until they’re sticky enough to peel a layer of skin off the soles of his feet. In his opinion, cereal is a perfectly acceptable dinner for the children, and there’s no point in catching up on laundry until everyone is out of underwear—including the pair with the holes and weak elastic stashed back in case of emergency.

And it’s a fine line when it comes to asking him to do more housework, because I still haven’t deciphered the formula to communicate these things to him without sounding like a nag. After 18 years of understanding our respective places in the family, it’s a huge struggle to readjust and let go of control.

To make matters worse, my mother-in-law is flying in to visit this week. Thankfully, she’s not the snooty type who’ll show up in a pair of white gloves, commenting on the dust everywhere. Still, I always want to put our best foot forward whenever we have houseguests. But I can honestly say that she has never seen my house in the state she’s going to see it in now.

Several friends have told me that what I need for this season is a wife of my own, meaning that I need another woman around to do all the things I can’t do at the moment. I’ve also had several friends say for me to let them know if I need anything. Maybe it’s pride, or knowing that they’re all busy, but I can’t ask someone to take precious hours out of their day to come clean for me. I just can’t.

I know this is all temporary. In a few short months, someone will dig me out of the clutter to go to the hospital and have this baby, and after I’ve healed I’ll get back on top of things. Who knows? I might even find that box of hair dye before Christmas.