If you came here expecting a post about things that are not a.) pregnancy related or b.) incredibly negative, you may want to start slowly heading back to the Internet door because I’m going to get all “Negative Pregnancy Feelings” all up in this joint.  If you’d like to see what it’s like to live “A Day in the Life of Tony,” then read on and feel for him.

Third option – If you’d like to provide a shoulder and possibly even brush my hair all loving-like for me as I cry to you about the suckiness of suckinesses, I will be instantly bonded to you for life.  You will not get rid of me, much like your very own, personal 30-year-old child who will keep calling you to see if I can move back in (my entrepreneurial go at creating that website that was going to make me millions just needs a little more time to catch), even if it means sleeping on the couch in the basement (it’s totally cool), but slowly I might start eating all the food in your cabinets and asking if you could swing me, like, $5 in gas money, man…I’ll get you back…

Look what you started by being nice to me.  Make sure you keep the pantry stocked with Cheetos, ‘cuz those are my fave.

Off track big time, I know.

Anyway, here’s where I start the whining.

I am just shy of 34 weeks pregnant now and things have definitely moved out of the “look at my adorable bump” and “I’m feeling super-great because I’m an incredibly annoying skinny pregnant lady” stage to “I am a freak, unlovable whale who is bringing the gaucho pant trend from 2005 back because I literally can’t fit into any other pants and I found those at the bottom of my dresser – hallelujah, amen.”

I joke to everyone that getting myself dressed for work is a struggle every morning, but I am seriously not joking.  I find I’m revolving the same 3 outfits every week, while always lovingly gazing at my “old body” clothes and wishing I could buy something new from the damn Banana Republic instead of Destination Maternity.

I am also not joking in the slightest when I admit that I’ve entertained the idea of how best to “dress up” a pair of yoga pants to make them look acceptable for the workplace.  So far this particular kind of crazy has not won out over rational thinking, however I still have 6 weeks to go and that means 6 weeks to help those crazy impulses build stamina in order to rule out all commonsense thinking.

Everything hurts now.  My pelvis feels like it has gotten a work out, but not the good, 50-Shades-of-Grey kind.  So do my inner thighs, but that could just be the chafing from them rubbing together now.  I can’t paint my toes or put on my socks anymore.  Rolling over in bed requires a pep talk.

Tony is sympathetic, but has that strain of ADD that makes it impossible for him to sit down and give me a back rub for more than 3 minutes at a time.

Our nursery looks the same as the picture I posted in the last entry, so Fox better not come early or we’ll be changing poopy diapers on a white shag carpet.

I’m not sure I’ve reached my “bitching” quota yet, so I have one more for you – it’s damn hot here.  Like 100 degree days for the past 3-4 weeks.  Listen.  I get it.  Mayan apocalypse in just a few months.  Crazy weather patterns.  Whatevs.  Just find me the damn air conditioner until December 21st.

Have I literally managed to spew enough negativity to make you all cranky and hateful towards me and my uterus yet?

Here’s where I apologize.  I am growing a little miracle and I remind myself of that every single day when I watch him do a little wiggle across my stomach.  I find myself resting my hands on my Buddha belly constantly and imagining what he’ll look like and what his cry will sound like.  I’m no dummy.  I realize how incredibly blessed I am that we are expecting a beautiful, little beaner.

So I appreciate you all lending an ear as I vent.  And for waiting for me to come full circle in this post and realize that there are more important things in my future than whether my pants fit.

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