So, ten days in to November, I totally sucked up my plan to post an entry on every day of November. Why? Because I actually wrote four posts yesterday, but they were all so incredibly depressing and angry and boring and just downright awful that I couldn’t bring myself to post them. I don’t like hearing a martyr in my voice, and that’s all that leaves my lips here of late.
It’s VERY hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel at this point. Bryan’s tired of hearing it too, which is convenient since he’s never home anymore. He’s building every spare moment that isn’t otherwise filled with little league sports, but some of that has got to clear up soon. It has to, because I hope to have a baby sometime in the next twenty-one days.
Everyone is trying to be so kind, and I know that. However, I now feel as if my only identity is “Thanksgiving Day Blimp”, because all people want to know about is the baby. Which is fine.. I really have nothing else of interest to talk about. Unless you want to know what Paula Deen made this weekend for her Thanksgiving day special, all that’s happening now is in my damn abdomen.
There just comes a point where there’s nothing left but waiting, and I’ve never been good with waiting on the unknown. I’m too much a virgo, and this not knowing where or when is enough to make me tear my hair out.
This post is just a bunch of sunshine, isn’t it? Well, welcome to the end of pregnancy. All sugar and spice.
I don’t think I could ever be a stay at home mom. Just being on limited bedrest is enough to make me all “The Yellow Wallpaper”-y.
For all those who wondered what “nesting” would be like for a girl who already suffers from OCD of cleanliness, here it is: she goes into remission. She stops caring about the house. Because why bother? It’s just gonna get messy again. It doesn’t matter how many hours are spent sweeping and vacuuming and washing and scrubbing, because two days later, it’s like it never happened. The house has funny smells and there’s hair everywhere and you know what? I’m finding it kind of charming. Not really. Really, it’s driving me up the fucking wall, but I just don’t have the spark anymore. It hurts to clean, and since the “hurt” isn’t any kind of progress? Fuck it.
Okay, I see I’ve wandered into the “f-word” realm. Probably should wrap this up.
To recap: babies are cute. Adopt them. Or get a dog. Preferably a hairless one. You’re totally allowed to lock them out of the house without people judging you.
Oh, and I feel fine, thanks for asking.