Brrr.

My internal thermostat is off.

I've basically spent the entirety of this pregnancy (and winter) huddled in front of a space heater in my living room, the front of my body sizzling and smoking and the back side shivering from the contrast. Each night, once Eva's off to bed and I've at least given some thought to the housework I ought to be doing, I park myself in front of said heater and only get up to race upstairs and into a hot bath before bed. From there, it's straight underneath a sheet, a blanket, two quilts, and an extra blanket folded in half and covering my side of the bed. Radiant oil space heaters then keep the temperature in our bedrooms upstairs at a respectable 64, while the rest of the house sits at a frosty 54.

In the morning, Mr. Milkweed (who's more of an early riser than I've been lately) comes downstairs to turn the heat back up to the mid-sixties, at which point I feel brave enough to venture downstairs for breakfast.

Oh, how I long for spring, and not just for the option of taking walks and going to the playground again. I'm looking forward to feeling comfortable, or even a little over-warm.

Until then, brrrrr.