Debbie Does Drivel

How will I bear a child?
I am already in full whine mode, bellyaching about my discomfort and I am just approaching my 8th month.
It is difficult to sleep at night (Alex is very loose, she "goes with the flow," so to speak, so when I turn on my left side, all of her bulk goes with me and same with the right, so it is as if a 5,000-ton ball bearing is traveling under my skin).

I am finding it hard to breathe and whether this is because I've ceased all exercise the last 4 months or because Alex's ball-bearingness is squishing my diaphragm it is still whine-worthy.

Still, it's really cute when she knocks on my liver just to say hi. I should concentrate on that...the new life growing inside of me.

...slowly edging out my internal organs and claiming my abdominal cavity as her personal playground.

Pet Names

It was really cute when my two-year-old nephew started calling my dad "B-Pa," for Big Pa (because he couldn't say grandpa), but he wore out his welcome when he named me "Big Fat."

Countdown to Break-Up

Roughly, how many times can you demand your husband tickle your feet before he leaves you for good?

IRRITATHON

Normally, my feathers ruffle easily and I don't suffer fools gladly. But now more than ever, my meter is set to "off. fuck off."

I cannot watch TV much anymore because I yell at it too much. Kev, the King of Realism and the President of the Federation of Taking the Coat Off of Candy," is worried about my attitude. He feels I am bathing Alex in unhealthy levels of cortisol, the stress hormone, and that I need to think of happier things.

I know I should, but it's hard when Paris Hilton, MTV's Rich Girls and those freakishly melodic Gap commercials are all the hell over the place.
It's ultra difficult for me to lay down quietly and accept that the general public prefers style over substance.

And if I once again catch that episode where Tommy Hilfiger's daughter is crying because she can't fathom how to cook a burrito, I will bite through the muzzle Kev insist I wear during primetime television viewing hours.
(Sorry, Alex, I do hope that the Kenny Loggins "Return to Pooh Corner" CD I force myself to listen to will counteract my TV-induced cortisol flood.)

PLEASE. NOT THE KILLER FLU.

I'm so sick. My snot is burny and drips down the back of my throat like evil lava.
I cannot sleep because I cannot breathe.
Still: I've managed to do most of my Christmas shopping and will host Christmas Eve tomorrow night.
Yes, I am already in training for Super Mom: the woman who does it all despite numbing exhaustion and dwindling time.
I am very deserving of much kudos.

But no, I really am sick. I knew it was so when Kev began to rearrange our office/baby room and when mapping out his plan to carve a "porthole" between our bedroom and the baby's room, I stifled a yawn and nodded weakly.
Really, seriously, my husband considered drilling a large hole above our bed so we could peek in at the baby without having to leave our room.
It's cute, no? But crazy, right? Fever so overheated my brain that I could not differentiate at the time.

Anyway, Kev is currently out Christmas shopping. He does do this every year: wait until the last minute. He can't think what to get me this year either, so this is going to take awhile.
He thumbed through the newspaper ads last Sunday afternoon and questioned me: "Do you want this? (a vacuum cleaner)
"How about this? (a NY Times electronic crossword puzzle) and "What do you think of this? (a plastic watch).
He is grasping at Christmas gift straws.

And the strange thing is: this year I really don't care what I get. I would be fine without anything (except the health of myself and the baby).

Hey! Not only am I Super Mom, I'm also quite selfless and charitable. I have discovered the real meaning of Christmas.

But seriously, I hope I don't get a vacuum.