I. Just. Give. Up.

My bloggery pal over at Westward Bound had the right idea a few months ago, when she formally announced a hiatus during her last month or so of pregnancy.  I should have announced the same, but that task did not make it onto my spreadsheet of To-Do items and subsequently fell into the abyss.

And so, here (along with a final VENT) is official notice:  I give up.  I am round, sleepless, and can only touch my toes when sitting down.  I am sick to death of eating spicy noodles, waddling for hours throughout the neighborhood, and attempting to deny myself ice cream.  Other… ah… intimate means of labor induction have taken a turn toward futility at a time when my skinny old cat cannot even fit in my lap, nevermind my husband. 

I am becoming more hostile toward people who tell me I look ‘ready to pop’.  Really?  That hadn’t occurred to me more than eighteen times this hour.  The grocery girls have begun to look at me sideways and move backwards a step when I approach their line, as if my belly might explode in their general direction and muss their hair.  They cock an eyebrow as if to say, “Still?”  

There are smudges on the hardwood floors and they make me cry.  I stand in the refrigerator door and sigh at regular intervals.  I don’t even care about my double chin anymore, which looks as if it has taken over the task of replenishing my stores of amniotic fluid.  Cheekbones… what cheekbones?  I am actually LOVING the cramping that’s been happening the last week, PRAYING for the pain of labor to arrive, and anticipate laughing with hysterical relief through regular contractions.

So you see, I am blogging off for a while because my attempts at remaining chipper are beginning to fail miserably.  I tried to keep my bitching and moaning within the confines of my house, but it is slowly spilling out past the door and into the street.   Those around me cheerfully point out that the baby will be here when it is ready, to which I respond with a steely gaze permanently affixed to my tired face.  I am beginning to have my doubts about this alleged baby.  In fact, I am starting to wonder if there is actually a baby in here at all; maybe it’s just been a near-year of undiagnosed severe gastrointestinal distress.

I’ll update again when I can either a) stop complaining or b) describe my newborn.

(Oh, and Happy Freaking Halloween.  It’s been cancelled at our house, because I have eaten all the chocolate.)