Let's get this out of the way first - Baby still not here.
Not going to launch into the drama of the last few weeks, but suffice to say, we are still waiting...
And waiting...
And growing....
And by growing, I mean me getting fatter. The kid? Eh, not so much. Still a bit on the small side.
I'm now one day short of 39 weeks.
Or by my count, two solid months of zero physical activity, peppered with on-and-off-and-on (again) bedrest. One moment the kid's head is all but hanging out and we are bags-packed-and-headed-to-the-hospital, and the next he/she has crawled right back up and nestled into the apparently-welcoming envionment of my womb, with talk turned to being in this for the long haul.
You can imagine how thrilled this makes me.
Yeah, I am a straight peach to deal with at this point.
In fact, I was trying to post pictures of my baby shower (coincidently held the exact day I hit nine months so you can get the full impact of my ginormously swollen body and face) for this post, but iPhone is being a bitch and not letting me transfers pics.
Or something.
Who cares.
I can't be bothered to figure it out, so I have to wait until my husband wakes up to do it for me.
Just like he now has to do everything for me: tie my shoes, cook my food, pull me off the couch (and out of the car),and deal with my bed-rattling snoring.
And endless complaining. Oh, it is endless.
I have ZERO patience for literally anything at this point (including work - it's like I am bothered when people call me during the day and I have to problems-solve some issue, gosh-forbid it breaks up my naptime), as my kid's foot has been stuck in my right rib for about five days, and I haven't sleep adequately in about two months.
Have I mentioned that my belly button (like my kid) can't decide what it wants to do, so it hasn't quite popped out, yet it isn't a regular in-ie anymore. No, my belly button looks like a clay-mation volcano, second only in nastiness to my cartoonish, National Geographic situation going on with my boobs.
Sit with that image for a minute if you can.
So in the absence of anything more entertaining (like those fucking pictures), here's a little something I learned this past week:
Eat too many Oreos and you risk not taking a crap for three days.
You're welcome.
