It's almost time for D(elivery)-Day, and I'm getting sweatier by the week. The anticipation is worst the second time around. Now I know all the secrets. Birth is nothing like the movies. It's not a light push and then someone hands you a clean 3-month old. Birth is a diarrhea marathon, followed by all your insides being on your outside. Then they hand you the most beautifully gross thing you've ever seen in your life, and a frightening amnesia about the whole thing sets in until you're about to do it all again.
Even though I'm easily distracted by an opinionated toddler, I've been in full on mama bird mode, nesting the shit out of our house.
We evicted #Gingerbaby from the nursery and crib, and we're remodeling everything we can get our hands on- building a garden, installing light fixtures, redoing the driveway, etc. I've also been going through storage to find bottles, swaddlers and accessories. Where the f*** is my pump? I spent a million dollars on Amazon Prime on nursing clothes, and we got a double-stroller that can be set up in 27 different ways until both our children are 27.
My latest burst of energy and some other tell-tale signs are making me anxious. This morning I took a peaceful 5 minute shower to shave the yeti growing on my lower half. As I maneuvered my belly around, I noticed my hooha was still there. I thought, "Six more weeks of pregnancy."
On the contrary, this evening I bent over to pick up a pile of laundry while attempting not to pee myself (harder than you think at 100-months pregnant). I noticed a shift in the bowling ball and stood up to find her between my knees. If you see me on the street and are wondering if I dumped myself, it's just my big ass baby.
Get out, sweet girl. Mama wants a glass of wine.