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Happy New Year’s Eve to everyone! I will be spending my evening with the dog, kitties, E and Tiny E on the couch, being incredibly old and boring and not caring even a teeny tiny bit. I am 27 weeks pregnant today, with only 91 days to go – once 2009 gets here I can no longer say I’m having a baby “next year” and I plan to have a nice little mental breakdown in the next few weeks. Now I am off to buy enough mini-quiches and mozzarella sticks to feed the entire houseful of people we’re not having over tonight. That is if I can get out of my driveway without shoveling this ridiculously heavy snow.
I have eaten a granola bar, a string cheese, the last two pieces of my baby shower cake, something called “trail baloney” we brought back from Ohio, and both the cheddar and white cheddar varieties of popcorn our neighbor gave us for Christmas. Plus four glasses of milk and a Diet Coke.
I am STARVING.
I know mothers are pretty much split between ones who walk around saying “Oh I just loved being pregnant!” and women who think those bitches are lying. Who loves puking? Or stretch marks? Or the incredibly painful and constant leg cramps I’ve started getting during the night? Maybe if all those lying liars would stop talking about the joys of pregnancy everyone else would feel less bad about not loving every single minute of it.
Actually, I’m afraid I fall into the annoyingly happy category. Obviously I didn’t love morning sickness and I certainly won’t celebrate the spider veins appearing daily on my thighs. But every single time the baby moves, I forget all the bad parts. Every roll, punch, kick and wiggle is like being sprinkled with magic baby fairy dust and I want to stop everything else so I don’t miss a second of it. I’m sure once the baby is actually out in the world doing adorable baby things I won’t be so amazed at a few kicks, but right now, nothing in the world is better than being punched in the cervix. I bet you never thought you’d hear someone say that.
I came home to a dozen Christmas cards (I feel guilty for not sending any), and present from my neighbor (I didn’t buy/make her anything yet), and a week’s worth of newspapers thrown in my bushes (I didn’t send the paperguy a tip). I didn’t really get into the holidays this year, at least by my usual insane cookie-making-house-decorating-present-buying-matching-shiny-wrapping-paper-and-designer-bows standards. I’ve just been so distracted by baby stuff Christmas felt more like a hassle than a holiday, something I had to get through before 2009 finally got here.
Today I got around to reading all my mail, including my much loved Hanna Andersson catalogue, and went a little crazy. Do you think it would be totally inappropriate to buy these outfits for next Christmas ? I could probably bribe E into the shirt with alcohol and/or uninterrupted video game hours, baby E won’t care what he wears and I could probably squeeze into the skirt with a couple pairs of Spanx. What I really need to know is if matching family outfits makes me some sort of psychopathic Martha Stewart brainless Stepford wife clone, or if the cuteness of having baby’s first Christmas picture in coordinating tartan (at 50% off!!) outweighs the craziness. I mean, it’s not like I’m planning to buy the tiny little girl outfit, just in case we have one of those in a couple years. That would be totally nuts. So I won’t do that. Really. Well, probably.
I really miss being a normal person.
…was some waffle fries. And I got them!
The only bad part is now my craving is worse than ever, and even looking at this picture my mouth has started watering.
E, Brutus, tiny E and I are all finally home after many, many long hours in the car and I have no plans to take my pajamas off ever again. I suppose eventually I’ll have to go out for milk or juice or something, but I refuse to shop at stores that frown on flannel pants. I frown on your ridiculously high expectations for pregnant women! You try getting your jeans on without falling over while you have three bowling balls strapped to your front. It is really hard.
E’s side of the family had a baby shower for me the day after Christmas so I now have an entire baby wardrobe complete with tiny socks, shoes and hats. I cannot stop staring at the titty bitty clothes and thinking what a BAD IDEA it is to put me in charge of something that small. I can’t even keep track of my digital camera.
In other news, either I’ve actually lost weight, my in-law’s house is on some sort of magnetic field that causes scales to register 5 pounds less or I’ve discovered an amazing Christmas-cookie-and-pie diet. I’m hoping it’s the third one, because I could really use another source of income right now. My baby might not end up naked but he still doesn’t have any sheets. Eh, I don’t think a lack of sheets ruins childhood. I’ll read this book I got for Christmas to make sure.
Me: You know, once this baby comes out I’m going to kind of miss feeling him move around in there.
E: Well I could always kick you in the stomach at random intervals if that would help.
(Cuddling on the couch)
E: Hey, is that a stretch mark?
Me: WHAT? WHERE?!
E: Yeah, there’s a whole bunch of them. One…two…three…four…
For the record, they were marks from my pants, not stretch marks.
Tomorrow we’re off to visit first my family and then E’s for Christmas. I’ll be back just in time to not get drunk for New Years Eve.
(during an argument)
E: You know, it’s a SCIENTIFIC FACT that your brain shrinks 20% during pregnancy.
E: So it’s not your fault you’re being retarded. It’s just science.
No seriously, don’t click on this link. I’m warning you, the headline is “Colorado Doctor Finds Foot in Newborn’s Brain”. Whatever you do, DON’T LOOK AT THE PICTURE.
I totally knew you’d look. Now I’m off to have nightmares about giving birth to a baby with a foot-tumor.
I had a quick doctor’s appointment today, where I was declared one of the practice’s “healthiest patients” even if I am a fat fat fatty. 5 more pounds in the last month, although the doctor actually said “Wait, is this right?” when she saw my numbers. I wanted to explain that I totally just weigh more than most people and as long as my size 10 maternity jeans still fit I DO NOT CARE if your scale says 200 lbs on it. THAT’S RIGHT PEOPLE. 200 pounds. And every pound of me and my baby has excellent blood pressure, no indications of gestational diabetes, and measures right on track for 25 weeks.
In three weeks I take my glucose level test – I’ve heard really bad things about the crap they make you drink so I’m not looking forward to it – a bunch of STD tests and another Rhogam shot to prepare me in case I go into labor. And then it’s appointments every 2 weeks until I pop this thing out. I suppose I can no longer avoid the fact that it’s gonna happen, and science probably won’t figure out that totally pain-free teleportation delivery before then.