|RAWWWWWWR. I'm huge.|
AHMAHGASH these 'roids are killing me! You try walking around with a searing hot butt raisin hanging on to your sphincter all day and still be pleasant. And look at my feet!!! They're like Barney Rubble feet. My damn toes don't even touch the ground. And the heartburn I get every night makes me feel like a volcano. Like a volcano spewing hateful lava with the heat of a thousand suns. And I had to have my wedding ring sawed off the other day because my sausage fingers tried to swallow it whole. I can't even make a fist anymore! THIS IS SO AWFUL! GAAAAAAAAHHHH foam foam spit rage.
So when I bore you with my boring responses about how boringly normal I feel, just pretend that I have a searing hot butt raisin.
Mitch had a panic attack this weekend about how unprepared we are for having this baby. Let me back up. We were at our friends' house Friday night, enjoying a fire in the backyard, and right in the middle of some riveting discourse, the lady of the house turns to me and says, "I'm sorry, I think my water just broke." Rude. Mitch didn't even get to make a s'more (by the way, they had a beautiful baby girl the next morning after a super short labor, because the lady of the house is apparently a super hero).
On the way home from their house, Mitch started freaking out that we didn't have a car seat. Apparently the impending doom only then became real for him. We only just bought a mattress for the crib last week, so I don't know where this panic has been until now. I think it's been hiding under motorcycle repairs and the champagne of beers, but I'm glad he's finally catching up. Now I think he gets why I have been freaking out about finding the perfect end table for the last two months.