Boredom setting in.

It's the first day I've felt like someone without a job. Or even a goal or an itinerary or a schedule. I woke up early and have spent my time since then reading and watching TV. The climax of the day's excitement came at lunch, when a friend was supposed to stop by to see the new apartment and to eat. So I hurriedly tidied up and traded my pajama pants for arguably real pants only to find out that she couldn't come after all because work had gotten too busy. Back into the pajama pants I went.

I don't function well without things to do. I'm on week three of no-job, and it's taken until today to have that creepy-crawly lazy feeling catch up with me.

I've never been able to take naps, no matter how tired I may be, thanks to that nagging voice telling me I should be doing. I can't sleep in because the second my eyes open, even just between dreams, that voice is back, demanding that I do, do, do. When my health demands otherwise--in the past when I've hardly been able to get out of bed for a day or more at a time--the voice doesn't rest. It only goes to war with my body, calling it worthless and ridiculing its lack of tenacity.

Back in August when I made the final decision that I'd have to leave work earlier than the average pregnant person, I knew this day would come. When I got done packing, and moving, and setting up the new place. When I got to my sixth novel of the month and the novelty of reading voraciously wore off. When enduring 12 more weeks of a task-less existence would suddenly outshine how impossibly fast the last 28 weeks have flown by.

I spent 23 years falling in love with language and words and writing and four years focusing that love on telling true stories and journalism. Then I spent 11 months after I graduated with a bona fide job. And not just any job, but a job with an impressive title in my chosen field, one that is--according to the innumerable experts and professors who drilled it into my heads during college--supposed to be dying, dying, dead. But within a month of getting my diploma I was an associate producer. I was writing the words people call "news." But I still wasn't satisfied.

In 12 weeks or less, I'll have a child. That thought has taken over all others. I've forsaken contemplating my future, my already-stalled career and exactly how I will occupy my time after baby-mania has worn off. And when the to-do list dwindles, I can't help but stop and think about it.

I've always been lucky that I've known what I want to do. Earlier this year, I found a survey in my parents' garage that I'd filled out in first grade. My favorite color is no longer pink. I no longer spell my name with a backwards "r." But one thing hadn't changed--next to future career, I already knew. "Writer." Backwards "r" included.

I only hope my daughter has the same focus, that she can love something so much to look back nearly two decades later and watch the progression.

I guess that when the time comes for me to start teaching Adelyn about hopes and dreams and goals and careers--and who knows what I'll be doing then--I can tell her that when she was born, I was at the precipice of figuring it all out. Teetering over the edge.