I like old cheddar or gouda, if I can pick which one you bring to my pity party. In little cubes with crackers and paté, please.
Life is a cruel mistress. Or poolboy. Or something. Actually, if life were having an affair with me, it would have run in the opposite direction by now, because I'm starting to feel absolutely miserable.
I promised myself - promised! - that I wouldn't succumb to the last few weeks of 'get this baby the hell out of me and I mean right now' hysteria like I have the last two times. This is my third pregnancy. I'm a superwoman. I'm a successful alumni. I'm a decorated veteran, for goodness sakes. I have purple hearts of courage in the form of scars and stretch marks and other unmentionables. This was a surprise pregnancy, too. I truly thought my body had shut down the egg division to make the shareholders happy, yet, lo and behold, a second line on a pee stick changed my life in ways that are supposed to be purely joyous. There's no room for complaining when you're grateful, right? RIGHT?!
I made it past the puking stage. I only had one breakdown, boo-hoo-suck-it-up cryfest in all those weeks of swirling insides. When that passed, I told myself that it would all be downhill from there. What's worse than hating all food and setting up a temporary shelter in the bathroom, anyway?
I'll tell you what's worse: being nearly 33 weeks pregnant, hating life and all that it encompasses, that's what. It appears Ms. Positivity is slumming it in Bringdown Land. Population: 1 melancholy pregnant woman who is too sore to move, let alone breathe half the time.
The proverbial pool noodle up my hooha makes it virtually impossible to enjoy doing anything that involves the legs moving independently. That includes getting out of bed, putting on or taking off pants, getting in or out of a vehicle, crossing my legs, climbing stairs or, oh yeah, walking.
While the in-laws were in town this weekend, we ate brunch just behind where Geekster works. I thought it would be a nice idea to point out the building, as they'd never seen it before. What I mean by 'point out the building' is to walk around the side of the strip mall and say 'Look, everyone! That's where Geekster works! Ok, take a picture or something and we can go.'
Apparently 'point out the building' in the Geekster English Dictionary means 'Let's walk over to the enormous complex I call work and then around the entire thing, which a lot of people do once or twice during lunch because it's good cardio'.
'Good cardio' for most people equals 'I'm about to keel over in agony' for vastly pregnant women. Not to mention that InUtero Boy has found a new and exciting game: Whack the Cervix. In this game, the baby uses whatever body part is closest and hits this very sensitive area with all his or her might. I found out that there's a special bonus when the mother is walking around a giant building: her knees give in and she practically falls over in pain. I bet he scores a lot of points for that.
So yes, I'm getting to the point of incomprehensible discomfort. Mother nature is terrible, because she makes us forget just how awful these last few weeks can be. While I'm not in a hurry for him to come out, I certainly wouldn't object to a 37 week delivery. That's only four weeks and I can live with that. The idea that he may not come for nine more weeks - bringing me 2 weeks over my 'due date' (read: that stupid date they give to pregnant woman, who then turn it into some kind of mantra and base their sanity on the baby arriving before or on that date, but not after) - isn't something I'm willing to even contemplate right now. It won't happen. It can't happen. I veto any late gestating. I'm writing up an eviction notice and he has to leave the premises between four and seven weeks from now.
Just to make things worse, the gremlins are living up to their nickname today. Gutsy's attitude would earn him a two hour special on Nanny 911 (and earn the nanny several weeks of in-patient mental health care, hands down). Intrepid spent the night at the in-laws' campsite and is a wee bit tired. This means we have a spazzy child and a tired child attempting to interact with catastrophic consequences. The noise volume is at an all-time high. In fact, I ordered everyone into the van after dinner to subdue the monsters with a movie and a drive out in the country. I apologize to the environment for ruining it and to my children for pacifying them with flashy, bright images on a box, but I just couldn't take it anymore. Geekster was losing it, too, but at least he gets to go to work tomorrow.
It's times like these that I have to remember what it was like to not only look after my own dastardly duo but the daycare demons as well. It makes me feel a little bit better. Just a little bit, though. The memory of those traumatic days is leaving me like a white collar husband going through a midlife crisis. It's getting hard to draw on all that negativity and use it feel better about my current situation.
Of course, I just type all that garbage and Intrepid has to come over and perform a random act of hugging. Way to ruin my sulk fest. Jeeze.
Countdown to Oldness: 12 days.
Will it all suddenly get better when I'm a mature and sensible woman in my thirties? Please tell me it will.
Life is a cruel mistress. Or poolboy. Or something. Actually, if life were having an affair with me, it would have run in the opposite direction by now, because I'm starting to feel absolutely miserable.
I promised myself - promised! - that I wouldn't succumb to the last few weeks of 'get this baby the hell out of me and I mean right now' hysteria like I have the last two times. This is my third pregnancy. I'm a superwoman. I'm a successful alumni. I'm a decorated veteran, for goodness sakes. I have purple hearts of courage in the form of scars and stretch marks and other unmentionables. This was a surprise pregnancy, too. I truly thought my body had shut down the egg division to make the shareholders happy, yet, lo and behold, a second line on a pee stick changed my life in ways that are supposed to be purely joyous. There's no room for complaining when you're grateful, right? RIGHT?!
I made it past the puking stage. I only had one breakdown, boo-hoo-suck-it-up cryfest in all those weeks of swirling insides. When that passed, I told myself that it would all be downhill from there. What's worse than hating all food and setting up a temporary shelter in the bathroom, anyway?
I'll tell you what's worse: being nearly 33 weeks pregnant, hating life and all that it encompasses, that's what. It appears Ms. Positivity is slumming it in Bringdown Land. Population: 1 melancholy pregnant woman who is too sore to move, let alone breathe half the time.
The proverbial pool noodle up my hooha makes it virtually impossible to enjoy doing anything that involves the legs moving independently. That includes getting out of bed, putting on or taking off pants, getting in or out of a vehicle, crossing my legs, climbing stairs or, oh yeah, walking.
While the in-laws were in town this weekend, we ate brunch just behind where Geekster works. I thought it would be a nice idea to point out the building, as they'd never seen it before. What I mean by 'point out the building' is to walk around the side of the strip mall and say 'Look, everyone! That's where Geekster works! Ok, take a picture or something and we can go.'
Apparently 'point out the building' in the Geekster English Dictionary means 'Let's walk over to the enormous complex I call work and then around the entire thing, which a lot of people do once or twice during lunch because it's good cardio'.
'Good cardio' for most people equals 'I'm about to keel over in agony' for vastly pregnant women. Not to mention that InUtero Boy has found a new and exciting game: Whack the Cervix. In this game, the baby uses whatever body part is closest and hits this very sensitive area with all his or her might. I found out that there's a special bonus when the mother is walking around a giant building: her knees give in and she practically falls over in pain. I bet he scores a lot of points for that.
So yes, I'm getting to the point of incomprehensible discomfort. Mother nature is terrible, because she makes us forget just how awful these last few weeks can be. While I'm not in a hurry for him to come out, I certainly wouldn't object to a 37 week delivery. That's only four weeks and I can live with that. The idea that he may not come for nine more weeks - bringing me 2 weeks over my 'due date' (read: that stupid date they give to pregnant woman, who then turn it into some kind of mantra and base their sanity on the baby arriving before or on that date, but not after) - isn't something I'm willing to even contemplate right now. It won't happen. It can't happen. I veto any late gestating. I'm writing up an eviction notice and he has to leave the premises between four and seven weeks from now.
Just to make things worse, the gremlins are living up to their nickname today. Gutsy's attitude would earn him a two hour special on Nanny 911 (and earn the nanny several weeks of in-patient mental health care, hands down). Intrepid spent the night at the in-laws' campsite and is a wee bit tired. This means we have a spazzy child and a tired child attempting to interact with catastrophic consequences. The noise volume is at an all-time high. In fact, I ordered everyone into the van after dinner to subdue the monsters with a movie and a drive out in the country. I apologize to the environment for ruining it and to my children for pacifying them with flashy, bright images on a box, but I just couldn't take it anymore. Geekster was losing it, too, but at least he gets to go to work tomorrow.
It's times like these that I have to remember what it was like to not only look after my own dastardly duo but the daycare demons as well. It makes me feel a little bit better. Just a little bit, though. The memory of those traumatic days is leaving me like a white collar husband going through a midlife crisis. It's getting hard to draw on all that negativity and use it feel better about my current situation.
Of course, I just type all that garbage and Intrepid has to come over and perform a random act of hugging. Way to ruin my sulk fest. Jeeze.
Countdown to Oldness: 12 days.
Will it all suddenly get better when I'm a mature and sensible woman in my thirties? Please tell me it will.