Thirty weeks. It’s coming up. Still no nesting. Still no clean Closet (although it’s cleaner). My excitement has been figuring out how to pay the bills and keep my family calm and drama-free. Not an easy task.
You know what’s a blast about pregnancy? You can put in minimal effort, swipe on lipstick, not worry about holding in your gut and ohhhhhh, you are just adorable. Well, except to my boss. I’m sure he doesn’t think this is adorable at all. He’s had way too many preggos to deal with in the last couple of years. Any novelty has worn off. Oh, and I still haven’t talked to him about time off and what they are willing to do for me. I work for a small company with no HR dept. No kidding. And not super smart on my end.
I’ve also hit the constantly crying stage. My god, I’d cry if I opened my yogurt wrong. In fact, I probably have. But truly? This is slightly stressful. I could give a rat’s ass about labor, pushing it out, etc. It’s the family pressure, the monetary pressure, not the kid. Eh, whatever. The Kiddo will be worth it all. Even my lack of interest in any and all meats. Which, truth be told, is kind of disturbing for a mid-west born, carnivorously-raised, bloody steak loving girl like me. But whatever, the regular rules seem to be out the window when you’re knocked up.
Is it super selfish to hope I give birth six days after my due date? One of my favorite performers is coming to town five days after D-day and I am really hoping to get to go. I mean, if my water breaks or something at the show, then he like, HAS TO wrote a song for the tot, right? We can have the hospital bag in the car just in case. Just saying.