Mike is on his second business trip in as many weeks.
The girls were still sleeping this morning, so I woke them up so they’d be up when the babysitter got here.
Was changing diapers when the babysitter called to say she just woke up and wouldn’t be here for another hour and a half.
She was already 15 minutes late at the time.
Pregnancy terrifies me. I don’t enjoy being pregnant (which makes me an asshole, I know).
I feel ill for the entire time. My pelvis goes to shit. Holy crap I already have two kids to take care of while I’m moaning on the bathroom floor. And I don’t bear the responsibility well. I hate the feeling of everything I do impacting the baby. I obsess over it.
Which is why I go on a rampage when people “help.” If you see me eating cheese, whatever the hell kind it is, I’ve thought about it. I’ve made the conscious decision to eat it. I don’t need you to say, “I don’t think you should be eating that.”
Or “Are you sure that’s safe?” “I don’t think I would do that if I was pregnant, but I guess if you want to…”
I’m happy to rail against some old white man who thinks he controls my womb. Fuck him.
I’m just as happy to rail against someone who is not my doctor, telling me what I should be doing. Fuck you too.
Future discussions over the next five months include: VBACs, Mike not letting me hire a full time stay-at-home buddy, terror of ticks/summer in New England, oh my god is the construction upstairs going to be done by the time blob arrives, etc.
At first I thought they were telling me to get dead.
They want to go outside.
It’s 35 degrees colder than yesterday.
So I’m yelling back, “fuck no fuck no fuck no!”
Are anxiously waiting for the UPS man to deliver my razor blades.
I’m officially grumpy.