Week 37, Day 2. Still no baby, but I really shouldn’t complain since my due date is still a couple weeks off. I do hate putting up with contractions in the meantime, and this whole "guessing game" is absolutely maddening…I’m almost willing to try my father-in-law’s idea of getting Caleb shnockered. Almost. I’m also tempted to ask the doctor about the labor induction I should apparently be having. But then again, I’ve come this far. If the baby hasn’t made it here by his original due date of May 21st, then I can give that option more serious thought.
So, I’m waiting. Sometimes I’m tired and achy and contraction-y, sometimes I’ve got plenty of energy. Caleb’s getting a little anxious, I think, but only because he really wants me to hold out as long as I can so he can have his prize-winning newborn: "If he’s born early, then he won’t weigh as much as Mia did when she was born. I want at least a ten-pounder." You’d think he was talking about one of the tomatoes in his garden.
I’m also a tad…shall we say…pissy?…lately, and I’m getting overly mad at even little things. For instance, it really chaps me when Caleb says things like "We’re pregnant" or "Our pregnancy". Let’s just get one thing straight, okay? It’s not you, it’s me. It’s all me. I’m pregnant–this is my pregnancy, damnit. My nausea, my fat, swollen fingers, my stretch marks. I also hate it when Dora and Boots go on this great trip to Coney Island to buy some measly ice-cream, when along the way they pass a CHOCOLATE LAKE–hello? Once on Coney Island, they chase the ice-cream truck all around these huge mountains of ice-cream, just so they can pay 8–count ’em, 8–coins for a tiny scoop of crappy ice-cream. What the hell? Is Nickelodeon teaching our kids to be butt-stupid?
I hate when people speed even slightly through our neighborhood. I hate when they’re not speeding, but their car is so souped up that it sounds like they’re speeding, and I’m forced to give them the finger anyway.
Alright, I’d better quit while I’m ahead. Caleb came home with the good kind of donuts. I guess that makes up for the crazy comments he’s been making. Everyone deals with stress in their own way.