October 5, 2011

No News is No News

Yesterday, Mr. BBM came upstairs from his office to find me sprawled out on the kitchen floor in front of my kitchen island. Surrounded by baking dishes, trays, serving dishes and cooling racks, I pleaded with him, “Help me.”

He told me he was just up for a quick break. He had another conference call and he couldn’t help me.

“No,” I whined at him, “not ‘help me’ with the cabinet; help me STOP cleaning and organizing. Make me STOP!”

“Why?” he said. “The only thing left to do is the basement and garage.”

And then, because I checked a little box on BlogHer that said I won’t swear on my blog, I said something that I can’t say here. Mr. BBM nearly lost it laughing; but I meant what I said. I have had it.

In the past couple weeks, I have organized two linen closets, a coat closet, an entire laundry room and every kitchen cabinet. My entire house has been vacuumed and steam mopped, dusted and wiped clean. I have broken fingernails to show for it and a back that is just killing me constantly, although I can’t tell if that’s from all the steam mopping or the torpedo of a stomach I’m sporting these days.

What appears to be just a thin layer of skin covering legs and arms and baby butt is stretched beyond all comprehension. I itch; I’m tired and I am so done.

Tomorrow is my official due date. Today I go to see the midwife. She said last week that I might be able to convince her to try to strip my membranes today (sounds like all kinds of fun, huh?). We tried this with Sassy six years ago (Yes, six. It was her birthday yesterday) and it didn’t work at all. Did I mention there were two attempts at that? So, you can understand why, even if they’re willing to try to help a girl out, I’m not optimistic that it will work.

After I was awakened at 5 a.m. with a contraction and killer need for a trip to the bathroom, I started looking up massageĀ  people on my phone. The thing is though, I can’t even really make an appointment, because who knows if I’ll be able to make it!

I have decided that the whole “Third babies come early and fall out” theory is just a complete and utter bunch of garbage. Whoever said that did not realize that my insides must be like the Taj Mahal. Why would any baby want to move out?

I was reading the “labor” chapter of one of my pregnancy books this week, to refresh my memory as to the pain I’ll be experiencing soon. In it, the author writes that you can tell you’re ready to go when your once round stomach, develops corners. I’m an octagon, and I am ready to go.

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