Little Precious

Is it bad that sometimes I refer to the Potential Person, Little Precious, Sweet Child O’ Mine, Junior, as ‘Little Bitch’? I never actually say it out loud, and there is a degree of fondness that you wouldn’t suspect. I do, however, feel some guilt about my sudden surges of anger towards such an innocent-appearing being.

Reasons I have called Junior ‘Little Bitch’ in the past 24 hours:

- Peeing ever 14 seconds in the middle of the night. The middle of the night is my sleepy time, not my get-up-and-touch-the-icy-bathroom-floor-with-bare-feet-56-times time. Other people who have children like to snicker when I complain about this, and say, ‘Oh, it’s just Nature’s way of getting you ready for night feedings’. I get the feeling that there’s more to this than they are telling me. Especially when they add, ‘Just be happy you can still make it to the toilet, because I pee myself every time I sneeze or laugh or the garage door opens’. People with children are not sympathetic to me complaining about getting less than a good 10 hours, I have learned.

- The nausea is not gone, just hiding. I was unloading the dishwasher and unsuspectingly threw up in the sink. For no good reason. So let me get this straight – leaning over perfectly clean, antiseptic dishes makes me yammy? Standing hurts my back, laying down I can’t get comfortable, and sitting gives me leg cramps? I will be spending the rest of the pregnancy in some sort of sling, I guess, sullenly watching my ass grow.

- My midsection is no longer a tool. I like to use various body parts inappropriately, as utensils and props and weapons. I open things with my teeth that I shouldn’t, I kick buses, and I like to shove things with my gut, or use it as a shelf. However, lately my laptop no longer fits comfortably on my lap, I felt a twinge when I tried resting a box on my abdomen yesterday, and I can’t lean against the sink to apply makeup (right, makeup, haha) the way I use to. It’s just darn inconvenient.

Only 19 weeks. So far to go still. Yes, I realize that yesterday 19 weeks seemed like a blink of an eye and that I was going to go into labor in like 3 seconds. Well, today, when I am tired, and surly, and want a cocktail, and have heartburn, and don’t have any pants that fit me so I will have to go out for dinner in some sort of makeshift parachute/old refrigerator box, it seems like a loooooooooooooong way off. And I still haven’t felt her move, which I am not as devil-may-care about as I previously let on. And I don’t want to do any more work, I just want to be on vacation. It's less than a week til Christmas, isn't there some sort of law? I shouldn't blame Junior for my grumpiness - there will be plenty to blame her for when she is actually here.