Stepford, This is Not

It occurred to me this evening that I am not, in fact, a superhuman. That was disappointing, but I moved on.

For the past week I've been a royal bitch. Like a "they forgot I don't eat brown M&M's, and it says it right in my rider" diva kind of bitch. For example, Michael came home from work one night and apparently was looking for me to be civil to him. Instead when I started telling a story and he walked into the other room to take his coat off, I decided I wouldn't talk to him for the rest of the night.

Because...well, I actually didn't have a reason other than HE.SO.DESERVED.THAT. after the way he treated me.

On Tuesday he had to work late which set me off because I thought I might cook dinner even though I haven't in about 7 months and 15 days and even though there was nothing in the house to actually cook, he managed to ruin dinner. A dinner that didn't exist.

And yesterday he was breathing. Obnoxious.

I think it's safe to say, adjusting back to my pre-pregnancy hormone levels has been a little more difficult than I would have liked and I'm really glad I'm back to plain ol' super strength birth control pills come Sunday. We need some hormone control up in this house.

However, when Michael came home tonight I was in a stellar mood. No, an actual good mood. I "cooked" us dinner (read: made sandwiches), we watched some TV and I didn't think a murderous thought the whole time.

Because by 6:15 this evening, The Bean, who is on her fifth straight night of sleeping in her crib for the WHOLE NIGHT THANK YOU BABY JESUS, had taken her bottle out of her mouth, placed the binky in her mouth and put.herself.to.sleep.

And with the remaining 15 minutes of daylight, I went outside to clean up 2 months worth of dog turds from my backyard.

And apparently, these are the things that make me happy now.

Prioritizing is Important

We are in the final countdown folks. I am considered full-term and can go into labor anytime from right.this.very.second. to 3 months (read: weeks) from now.

Naturally, everything is in a state of complete disarray here and nothing is anywhere near to where it should be. But this isn't another post about all the stuff left to do. You're all pretty aware that The Bean will be living in a dog crate set up in the middle of the room we're calling the nursery, but looks more like my grandmother's attic of treasures (read: crap).

Starting this week, the email bulletins I receive every day have taken on a different tone. Up until now these emails were full of "what your baby is doing today," "what stupid crap pregnant women are usually complaining about at this point" and "here's another superfluous, unnecessary item we're going to insist you own."

This week's emails were all about "RED ALERT: How to know you're about to go into labor."

That grabbed my attention.

I eagerly devoured these emails and discovered I am exhibiting approximately 546 of the 547 symptoms proven (read: in one person somewhere in time) to indicate labor is most assuredly (read: sort of, could be, might be, but probably isn't) imminent.

When you're in the homestretch of pregnancy you begin to grasp at the straws allowing you to believe that this will indeed end soon and sushi, Bloody Marys and turkey sandwiches will soon be back in your life.

So I convinced myself I was most definitely going to go into labor. Yesterday.

Upon coming to this conclusion, I ran into the shower to make myself (ahem) more presentable for labor. After an hour of shaving, trimming, bending in ways most unflattering, scrubbing and general soaping of everything, I emerged a new woman.

Because when one thinks they're about to go into labor, grooming should always be priority number 1.

Not putting together a bag of things to bring to the hospital. Not ordering crib bedding for the child to sleep on. Not vacuuming or cleaning the house covered in a fine film of dust and dog hair.

Nope. Grooming an area that will most assuredly be blown to smithereens and soon resemble a war zone. THAT is priority number 1.

[Editor's note: I am still sitting at home with zero indication that I will go into labor in the near future. I am, in fact, quite aware I have just ensured I won't go into labor until late August.]

Are You Doing It Right?

I'm pretty big about making confessions here. There was the "I hate shopping" confession, the "I love reality, crap TV" confession and probably a few others that I can't be bothered to find right now.

But you're going to have to sit down because this might be the biggest one yet.

I've only seen 2 (MAYBE 3) episodes of Oprah. Ever.

Yes, I promise I'm a woman.

I dig her messages, but the way she preaches makes me want to tear my face off and wear it as a hat. [Except when she does episodes on eating local, sustainable food because we all know that is even more important than having enough ice cream in the freezer--which is really, really important these days.]

Despite having not seen an episode (except for the Michael Pollen one) in the past 12 years, she has managed to form scar tissue in my brain and I can't help but think of her every single time I put on a pair of shoes.

I can't quite remember what the episode was about; something like making fun of people who don't do things the Oprah way or uncovering what people's habits said about them. Regardless, the segment forever emblazoned in my mind was about the order people put on their socks and shoes.

It's quite simple. You're either a sock-sock, then shoe-shoe person or a sock-shoe, then sock-shoe person.

And there was a big discussion on this. Most people are sock-sock, then shoe-shoe people and the prevailing argument was "If there's a fire, I'd rather run outside with two socks on and no shoes than one sock and a shoe on my left foot and nothing on the right."

Solid, logical thinking in my book since I, myself, was a sock-sock, then shoe-shoe person. [My underlying reasoning stemming from a deeper psychosis of wanting things to be in equilibrium at all times and a sock and shoe on one foot, with nothing on the other clearly would spell impending doom for the planet.]

At the time when I watched this episode (over a billionty years ago), the crazy sock-shoe, then sock-shoe people were discussing how much more efficient it is their way. Then (I may be making this part up because I tend to do that when I get excited about things), there was even a race to see which method got both socks and shoes on quicker. The sock-shoe people won. But I wasn't to be deterred since I was saving the Earth from certain destruction by doing it the sock-sock, then shoe-shoe way.

Ready for my new catchphrase?

That was back in my non-pregnant days.

Two confessions in one post (lucky dogs): I am now a sock-shoe, then sock-shoe person.

*Sob*

So all the bad crap that's been going down in the world lately...that's all my fault. All because the sock-shoe, then sock-shoe method means I only have to bend over twice instead of 4 times. Go ahead, try it. You'll see.

And when someone is punching you from INSIDE your stomach every time you bend over, you learn new ways of doing things.

Even if it means Oprah is totally going to make fun of you.

Sleep is the New Black

Next week, I'll be in my 24th week. So I'll be starting my sixth month of pregnancy. Can you see the rainbows and glitter shooting out of my butt yet?

Pardon my mood. I haven't slept in a week.

This is the stage of pregnancy where everyone around you gets excited because you are visibly pregnant, but not yet the sweating, swollen, twin sister of Violet Beauregard.

People manifest their excitement through a lot of tummy fondling, conversations with my belly button and serving me food first at dinner parties. And none of this bothers me one bit. Mainly because in certain circles I am known as the Queen of Pregnant Belly Molestation, so fair is fair.

While everyone else is getting their pregnancy bliss on at my expense, I have entered the "HOLY SH*T! RED ALERT! stage of pregnancy. Yea!

Over the past week, it has occurred to me that I'm supposed to actually prepare for being a mother in more ways than simply eating pints of chocolate chocolate chip ice cream and contemplating, then dismissing vacuuming my floors.

Did you know you need to get a room ready for this being? Oh and take some classes on how to get it out of you and how to feed it and how to not break it. And apparently you're supposed to buy supplies for these things because they don't come in an all-inclusive kit-type thing.

I know, I was surprised too.

Luckily, the dogs considerately woke me up EVERY.SINGLE.NIGHT. this week so I could devote enough of my brain power to stressing about these things I haven't even considered yet.

In case you don't know, I may have a slight tendency compulsive need to be the Champion of Everything. So when one of the dogs woke me up at 3 AM because a leaf fell out of the tree in the front yard and, boy, was he going to tell that leaf which way was up, well that seemed like a good time for me remember I totally forgot to sign up for a birth class which apparently fills up three years in advance. (Seriously, can't I get credit for watching every episode of "A Baby Story" and call it good?)

Or the night after, there was a thunderstorm which sends another one of the dogs into a full-on PTSD attack. So while I was wrestling her shaking, panting body off of mine and into the dog crate, I decided I probably should have ordered some baby furniture by now. And then stressed since I clearly was not being the Champion of Baby Furniture Ordering.

So I made a nice two-page list of things I need to do before The Bean makes her appearance. And I was pretty sure I'd be able to get through the list since I've never NOT completed a list I've created--because then I wouldn't be the Champion List Completer. But I forgot to add things like "Work 60 hours a week at your day job," "Sleep," and "Continue doing daily chores like cooking dinner, showering and breathing."

So I'm beginning to stress.

In an attempt to let me sleep through an entire evening, my husband brilliantly locked all the dogs in a room last night, then closed our bedroom door, turned on the noise machine and off we floated to a pleasant 7-hour visit to dreamland.

He's the Champion Awesome Husband.