8 months and counting

We’ve been trying to get pregnant for about eight months now, and for the first time in a while, I think I might actually be close. I’m constipated, grumpy, and my stomach is sick at the thought of bacon. Things are either looking really good, or really, really shitty.

My ridiculously condescending ovulation calendar (”Think you might be pregnant? Take a test and find out!”) says that given my cycle, I should have the best results with a home test on August 29th. Yes Calendar, I shall wait until the 29th to take the test. I will not ask questions, I will continue to hope I’m pregnant but sit unaware because if I’m not, my body is totally fucked and, apparently, there is not enough sleep for me in the whole universe.

What’s really super about this is that if I am indeed pregnant, I’m going to be home in Texas while my husband is far away for most of it. Somewhere he’ll be off high-fiving God, and I’ll be throwing books and empty pudding cups at passersby, because let’s be honest: being pregnant isn’t fun. Don’t lie to me and say, “Oh don’t you miss being pregnant? Didn’t you love it?” Sit down, Smiley. Being pregnant sucks, and you know it. You’re not going to some special heaven for mommies where you sit and scrapbook and talk about how wonderful it is to have blistering boils on your ass and sleepless nights sprinkled with trips to pee every half hour.

Sure, it’s great when you really start to show and fully realize what your body is doing, and yeah, feeling those kicks is awesome and totally mind-blowing. However, the general experience of owning a body that is growing another body isn’t exactly a magical mystery tour of delights.

I’ll be happy if I am pregnant, don’t doubt it for a minute, but I will be wearing t-shirts that say, “Before you ask what I’m having, I’ll tell you: IT’S A BABY,” to keep bystanders from touching me needlessly and asking me stupid questions. Oh, and I might build a contraption that launches empty pudding cups at people who stare at me as I try to get comfortable sitting on my ass blisters.

But seriously, please let me be pregnant.

I hate those bitches who loved being pregnant. Yeah, I love being constipated for months at a time. I also love wetting my pants every time I sneeze, not being able to breathe (pregnancy fucks up my sinuses), Acid Reflux, mood swings, awkward sex, excess gas, sore nipples…

Yeah, it fucking rules.

Seriously. Can we talk about hemorrhoids? Can we? Wanting to rape yourself anally with a toothbrush 24/7 is not my idea of a good time.

Ass blisters?

Never.

Having.

Baby.

LOL @ the concept of “I might be close.”

You’re really not helping your argument of “Ashe, you have to have kids one day.”

thank christ I’m not a woman

Frankly, I think full pudding cups would be better.

OH SHIT, jello cups. Why waste perfectly good pudding, man.

ass boils? like, ON the cheeks or the, um, baloon knot? either way, i think i’ll skip the kid thing