OK, y'all. I am officially done with being pregnant. Baby S. apparently hasn't gotten that memo yet, but since she can't read, I guess it may take her a couple of days to decifer it. I actually spent the better part of last night waving a chocolate Santa in front of my crotch, hoping it would entice her to come out.
Which didn't work.
Guess babies aren't into chocolate. Maybe I oughta try a Blue's Clues DVD or a fistful of Ritalin or whatever it is that kids like these days.
I'm not overdue or anything; we still have 10 days to go until our real due date. But it's nerve wracking to know that I could technically go into labor at any time. As I sit here, I'm really thinking I ought to take a shower, because who knows what the next hours will bring. Have I done everything I wanted to do before taking over the responsibility for an entire human (like showering and maybe shaving my legs if I'm feeling limber enough)?
And, if I may open up a big-ass can of self pity, this whole pregnancy thing has been kind of ... exhausting. Especially now, when it takes superhuman efforts to put on shoes — which have no laces, by the way. But my feet are somehow fat. Or maybe it's my socks. Yeah, that's it. It's the socks. And apparently I breathe and make other noises so loudly that Björn asks me every five minutes if I'm having contractions. These are not noises that I am aware of, but I can imagine that I sound like Fatty McGee from that one Adam Sandler album. And never mind my broken bladder, which sets off its own emergency alarm every five minutes. It's just looking for attention, if you ask me. So jealous of the uterus.
3 comments:
The mental image of you waving the santa is cracking me up...good luck in these final days!
Also, calling your baby a douche bag doesn't work. I tried that several times.
Two words... Castor Oil. Shizzle worked. Take the vodka BEFORE the oil/juice mix. By the look of Misty's face, a LOT of vodka.
Do you mean more castor oil than I already normally drink?
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