31 July 2006

Oh, Woe Is Me

/*begin rant*/

My feet hurt. My hands hurt. My left hip is getting pulled (pushed?) out of its socket, i.e., dislocated, i.e., it really fucking hurts.

I've had contractions every 20 to 40 minutes for the last day and a half. Most of them are the serious kind. Well, they don't hurt (not like the hip thing, which either doubles me over or drops me to the floor depending on whether there's something handy for grabbing or not). So I know it's not labor, but I pretty much zone out during them and don't hear what anyone says to me. (Except Ms. Four, but she's special.) So I know things are happening. We're effacing. We're dilating ever so slowly. Progress is being made.

I still have no baby.

I mean, she's still there. On the inside. I want her to come out and play. Hell, everybody wants her to come out and play. But no one more than me.

I can't take another day of waddling. I can't take another day of everyone rushing around trying to do everything for me. I can't take another minute of everyone telling me what I am and am not allowed to do. (I'm a fucking grown-up, fercrissake!)

They don't want me to go to work today. They think I don't fit behind the steering wheel (they may have a point there). They think I'm going to go into labor any second (I won't, of course, I'm not that lucky, and even if I did, I work in a fucking hospital, people! Not only that, I work in a hospital two floors directly above Labor and Delivery! Lay off!).

Besides, if I don't go into work today, I'll be Bored Stupid. And besides that, I'm not taking one minute of maternity leave until I have an actual baby to enjoy it with. I only get six weeks paid and after than I only get six more (unpaid, since my vacation and sick leave will run out, or more likely, paid but working from home) because this country has its priorities so pathetically ass-fucking backwards when it comes to social infrastructure. (I mean, really, how do you expect women to breastfeed their babies for a year when you won't give them the support needed to actually do that? And if you think you can get the breastfeeding relationship well-established enough in six to twelve weeks to make it to a year: THINK. AGAIN. Only the very stubborn (i.e., me and women like me) will stick it out.)

OK. I think that's everything for now.

/*end rant*/

26 July 2006

Hot Tub. Yeah, baby.

So I was planning on posting another litany of complaints (complaints new and different from those on the last litany-of-complaints post) this evening. But I can't remember what they are.

Why? Two words: Hot Tub. As in, the house we bought last month came with one and we finally got it drained, scrubbed, refilled, pH-balanced and had a sit in the fucker tonight after Ms. Four went to bed.

It was fucking great. No. It was SUPER fucking great. I mean, you have no idea what great is until you're 9 months fucking pregnant and suddenly find yourself weightless. With massage.

I couldn't stop giggling and didn't even care. It was absolutely fan-fucking-tabulous. The hip pain disappeared (it's been with us since April). The lower back pain melted away. The aching feet thing dissapated. Even the finger joint pain (a result of the relentless edema as I understand) took a hike for a bit. Oh yeah, and whatever it was I was going to gripe about took off, too.

Now my only complaint is: What in the bloody hell did we waste all that time painting and unpacking for when we should have been getting the hot tub operational?? Priorities, people. It's all about priorities.

17 July 2006

Questions I'm Totally Sick Of

1. How much longer do you have?

Too long. Whether it's one more hour, one more day, one more week or three more weeks, it's going to be too goddamn long. The only person who can ask me this and not piss me off is the girl at Starbucks and that only because she gave me the "Mommy Discount" and I got my decaf tall mocha for free one day a couple of weeks ago because I was having a bad-mommy morning. The rest of you need to shut up.

2. Do you have a name yet?

No. Actually, yes. We have a list. As I've explained nine dozen times, I cannot and will not name someone I have never seen. It just seems wrong. When we see her, we'll name her. Please stop asking.

3. Can I get that for you?

This is the hardest one for people to understand. Especially, bless his heart, The Husband. He's only trying to help and make these last few (*cringe*) weeks easier for me. But, really. I can get a glass of water by myself (sort of) and I hate needing help with stuff. Therefore, having people help with stuff pisses me off. (I'm going to make a Fantastically Bad invalid when I'm old and decrepit. Can you tell?)

4. How are you feeling?

I am nine months pregnant. How do you think I'm feeling? Miserable. Bloated. Fat. Unwieldy. Uncomfortable. HOT. Pick any. Pick all.

Post-Script: I composed the foregoing litany of complaints in my head on the shuttle from the parking lot (which I am forced to take since it's 95 fucking degrees out at 8:45 in the morning and I can't walk that far anymore, anyway). I trudged to my building, suffered the elevator (since it about kills me to take the stairs) and waddled miserably to my cube - to find one of our postdocs, a lovely woman from Mongolia, leaving me 9 red roses. Nine. One for each month of suffering. I just about cried.

Post-Post-Script (11:09 AM): And just now one of our interns, a lovely woman from China, brought me a little something for the baby. It's very cute - all the more so because it's blue. (You can't even imagine how sick I am of putting pink on little girls. Honestly, they look great in other colors.) Perhaps I'm the one that should shut up now...

13 July 2006

Bumpah Stickah: Episode III

Spotted stuck to the back of a shiny red Dodge Ram pickup:

What would Homer do?

It made my commute and I grinned all the way home. Hah!