I'd just run away now if I were you

So I’m in a bit of a conundrum. Now that we are all moved in to our new place and all the shopping and hell that is putting together miles upon miles of IKEA furniture is complete, I’ve only got one thing to focus on - which is this shortly coming to an end pregnancy. I’ve done my best to keep my pregnancy related topics out of this blog because personally I don’t find it particularly interesting, especially with everything else that’s been going on. But now that it’s all that’s left I feel like I have to dip my toes in water – or leave this blog unattended with animated tumble weeds blowing through.

Truth is I’m grumpy and uncomfortable and don’t feel much like writing much. To stop writing until I get out of this funk (i.e. give birth) is like a death sentence to the blog itself. I’ve found that if I stop writing one week, that one week turns to two, then a month then god knows how long while I come up with lame posts that begin with “I’m sorry for neglecting you.” I figure it’s probably best to bore you shitless with the crap I do have sitting in my head like a neglected turd that no matter how many times you flush the water never reaches it then to stop writing until I have something entertaining to say.

So yes…grumpy and uncomfortable. I’ve got two weeks until my due date which means absolute crap in relation to when babies decide they want to come out into the world and start their invariable journey of screaming louder than a fog horn and stealing from your purse. I’m not going to lie, it’s no secret to anyone that I absolutely despise being pregnant. Some women reveal in this shit but they are utter lunatics that don’t like whiskey (or, to be fair, tried for years and years to get pregnant unsuccessfully before finally cracking the code). I hate it. I hate every single aspect of it. The stupid pants with elastic belly waists that come up to your boobs (but never manage to stay there). The grunting when you put on your socks. Going for a pee then feeling like you have to pee again before you’re even finished washing your hands. Feeling justified for eating Oreos for breakfast only to have that sinking feeling on how hard it’s going to be to lose the Oreo cookie thighs when it’s all said and done. The backaches, the stomach aches, the hip aches, the puking, the tossing and turning trying to sleep, and the utter constant fucking question, “when are you due?” FUCK OFF PREGNANCY, I HATE YOU.

You know what pregnancy is like? Writing a complete paragraph ranting and raving and after re-reading it all you can think to yourself is, “I could really go for some Oreos.”

SIDE NOTE: The Tesco by our new house sells Oreos - and Philadelphia cream cheese. Small miracle.

I’m ready to be done. That is to say, I’m ready to not be knocked up anymore. I’ve been ready since October really, but now that it’s safe for him to come out, even more so. The nursery is ready – it’s actually the most decorated room in the house now as we’re still waiting for our stuff from the States to come in. (It’s actually a bet I have with myself – wondering which will arrive first, our things or the kid.) Andy joked today about putting a piece of chocolate by my crotch and telling the kid, “If you come out, you can have some candy!” I bought a fucking pineapple yesterday because someone told me eating pineapple can help bring on labor (though apparently only if you eat like 7 whole pineapples a day)(dammit!). I’d go jogging if I had enough energy to put on shoes and leave the house for more than 15 minutes – or if I knew that I wouldn’t pee my pants in the first 30 seconds.

I’d like to mention that patience has never been my strong suit and seriously, I cannot stop thinking about Oreos now.

Blah.

I’ll return shortly, hopefully in a better mood, hopefully 8 pounds lighter and buzzed on whiskey. If not, I’ll warn you in advance so you can skip the post and move on to a list on why Chuck Norris is better than Superman.