It’s the Final Countdown

Here’s my prediction: I’m 3 weeks from having this baby. Don’t listen to the little floaty guy in the sidebar, listen to the voice of experience. I have no patience and have turned into an absolute lunatic raving b*%&h.; It’s time to have a baby!

I hate everyone, and the more I should love them, the more they are p*$$ing me off. I’m normally a pretty happy and content person, but as of last night I’m just looking for a head to bite off. Fair warning, if you are coming for a visit, you might want to throw raw meat first to distract me. I’ve spent the last hour ripping the noggins off of Barbie dolls. I hate her. Who does she think she is with her perky boobs abd her little waist?

I wish I were one of those nesting moms who bring their babies home to sparkling clean houses and freshly laundered sheets. I bring the new guy home to a family that breathes a sigh of relief because nobody actually died.

#2 fell off his bike last night and scraped his foot in four or five places. He blubbered and whined about how much it hurt. (He seems to feel pain more than most people and seeing blood multiplies the pain.) The Computer Guy carried him inside just in time for me to tear into him about “Where the heck were the shoes I told you to wear?” My sweet husband (he really is going straight to heaven with no Purgatorial side-trip) said, “I think he just needs a hug from his mom.” I patted his head, because really it was that or shake him until he stopped wailing. I rolled my eyes at my son and told him to knock it off because, after all, “worse things happen at sea.”

I had to walk out of the bathroom. Even I knew I was hovering close to a line there. At the dinner table 30 minutes later (that’s right a whole half hour of his crying and my teeth grinding later), I looked at my son and asked exactly what the problem was. “It hurts so much,” he sobbed.

I raised an eyebrow and replied,” I’ve had to get 5 living human beings out of my body. Do you really want to talk pain with me?” That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, I’m up for Mother of the Year. I’m a shoe-in, no?

You get the gist. I’ve lost my mind. The alien with the old man name needs to get out. I don’t care about due dates and blah, blah, blah. Based upon past history, I morph into Mrs. Hyde about 3 weeks before the new guy arrives. Stop by and visit if you want, but bring raw meat or new Barbies, and enter at your own risk. You’ve been warned.