How Much Longer, How Much More?
I'm dying over here, yo.
If my calculations are accurate, and I really did get impregnated in September, then today marks the first day of Week 34. Meaning I have roughly 6 more weeks of joy to endure before Moosebaby's scheduled arrival.
If, however, I was actually impregnated in August--a theory about which many have voiced their suspicion--then today marks something like Week 38. (And Moosebaby may be suffering serious Fetal Alcohol Syndrome from That Wedding the first week of September.)
I'm torn between wanting to be right and wanting to be wrong.
I'd like to be wrong because, well, I just feel like shit. I can't breathe. Walking has become a complete chore. Getting dressed is an Olympian feat. And sleep? Forget it. I'm exhausted but as soon as I find a comfortable position, the little fucker rolls over and wakes me up again. I wake up several times a night and lately, it's getting more and more difficult to go back to sleep. I was up this morning at 3am and didn't get back to sleep til shortly after 5, when I finally just layed down on the floor of Moosebaby's room. (When Ben's alarm went of at 6, I got up and went back to bed and slept soundly for another hour.) I can't eat anything without wondering how it's going to affect my stupid blood sugar. The contractions are getting harder to deal with. I feel like a big, fat, ugly blob who couldn't outrun a drunk sloth. I just want my body back, dammit.
On the other hand, I hope I'm right because, well, I'm anal. I've been operating under the assumption Moosebaby won't be here until at least the end of May--i.e., I'll be working until at least the end of May. That's how I've budgeted. I also want to enjoy my maternity leave during the warmer months, not this shitty excuse for "spring" we're getting right now. I'd like a little more time to hopefully get Bob going on his new medication which will, God willing, work like a charm and give us some peace for at least a couple of months. Not to mention Bosshole has yet to figure out what to do about my absence and I'd like to take care of some shit here before I disappear and let him and/or someone else fuck it all up.
Human gestation just lasts way too fucking long. Let's work on that, scientists.
If my calculations are accurate, and I really did get impregnated in September, then today marks the first day of Week 34. Meaning I have roughly 6 more weeks of joy to endure before Moosebaby's scheduled arrival.
If, however, I was actually impregnated in August--a theory about which many have voiced their suspicion--then today marks something like Week 38. (And Moosebaby may be suffering serious Fetal Alcohol Syndrome from That Wedding the first week of September.)
I'm torn between wanting to be right and wanting to be wrong.
I'd like to be wrong because, well, I just feel like shit. I can't breathe. Walking has become a complete chore. Getting dressed is an Olympian feat. And sleep? Forget it. I'm exhausted but as soon as I find a comfortable position, the little fucker rolls over and wakes me up again. I wake up several times a night and lately, it's getting more and more difficult to go back to sleep. I was up this morning at 3am and didn't get back to sleep til shortly after 5, when I finally just layed down on the floor of Moosebaby's room. (When Ben's alarm went of at 6, I got up and went back to bed and slept soundly for another hour.) I can't eat anything without wondering how it's going to affect my stupid blood sugar. The contractions are getting harder to deal with. I feel like a big, fat, ugly blob who couldn't outrun a drunk sloth. I just want my body back, dammit.
On the other hand, I hope I'm right because, well, I'm anal. I've been operating under the assumption Moosebaby won't be here until at least the end of May--i.e., I'll be working until at least the end of May. That's how I've budgeted. I also want to enjoy my maternity leave during the warmer months, not this shitty excuse for "spring" we're getting right now. I'd like a little more time to hopefully get Bob going on his new medication which will, God willing, work like a charm and give us some peace for at least a couple of months. Not to mention Bosshole has yet to figure out what to do about my absence and I'd like to take care of some shit here before I disappear and let him and/or someone else fuck it all up.
Human gestation just lasts way too fucking long. Let's work on that, scientists.
posted by Mitzi Green at 7:33 AM
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