Some days I think I should take pregnancy belly pictures for the blog to keep up to date with how big I'm getting, but I'm not proud of how big I'm getting and when I tried to show my week 39 pictures to my husband from last pregnancy, he seemed freaked out. Honestly, I was kind of freaked out by the pictures. And I barely looked more pregnant than I do now.
I vacillate over whether we should DVR Community or The Vampire Diaries every week. Damn the only two shows I care about on live television for being on at the exact same time. Which do I prefer? Allison Brie, Joel McHale, and top notch humor? Or Ian Somerhalder and crazy fun drama? Most weeks vampires and their diaries win, but if they do another paintball episode on Community, I will have to reschedule things.
I called my doctor in a panic this evening because I was afraid the dull ache I've had in my abs all day was a bad sign, but it turns out the lack of throw-up, fever, or blood indicates that this is just another pregnancy symptom. I then secretly cried over the idea of another twenty weeks of this. Then I felt bad because I didn't want this baby to think I didn't love it. I do love it. I just love my body being my normal body more. Then that thought made me weep for a loved one in my life who has cancer and who is having a tough battle with it. At least this shit will all end in twenty weeks. I just got to tough it the hell out.
I genuinely hate the phrase "It is what it is" and everyone has started to use it. Screw that.
I have a cat that seems inclined to suicide. So far she has swung around on the top of a door that was opening and closing, fallen into furnace piping, gotten lost in two different attics, ran away from home and into a doghouse, attempted to eat tortilla chips and drink lemonade (which ended up with her slightly choking like a toddler who was never taught to chew), and tried to run away into a thunderstorm. As I told P last evening, if she saw a tank full of sharks, she'd probably jump into it.
Going back to work one day a week has made me remember how much I genuinely liked my job. I don't regret staying home to take care of my son, but I miss it.
The last Postsecret post had a postcard from a woman who talks about loving to give birth, but hating to be a mom. I think that woman is secretly my nemesis.
My mom made fun of me for just wanting to lie about and read or sleep for this whole pregnancy telling me that I was going to fail at being a mom to two. She seemed to ignore my point that this pregnancy was wretched to me and that I probably wouldn't get much of a chance to read or sleep after the baby was born.
All I think of all day long is how good my favorite foods must taste. They rarely taste as good as I think when I eat them. I still spent half an hour last night imagining a big bowl of gravy and some bread. I spent an hour today thinking of brown sugar Pop Tarts and another ten minutes daydreaming about chocolate ice cream. However, I'd probably be happiest if someone just installed a hospital ice maker in my kitchen.
Even though I do not yet know where we will be moving to in the future, I keep looking at every house that meets my list of requirements that is on sale in any region I'm interested in. I almost bought the most recent Philadelphia magazine that touted the best suburbs to raise children in. I love this house for the children it has brought me, but I think our family is outgrowing it very quickly.
N is really big into tantrums this last week. I can't figure out if he's just not getting over this cold/infection or if he's three.
For serious, only twenty more weeks. I can do it. Right? Sure, it's not running a marathon and then delivering, but managing not to die of sheer misery is something.