I’m afraid we’re all stuck in a holding pattern, we of Casa de la Sausage, and I’m similarly afraid that it may lead us to kill one another. It’s like the whole house–including animals–senses that Something Really Big (and likely annoying) is about to happen and everyone has decided to exhibit their absolute worst behavior.
Ben, at age 7, is so full of The Dramatic that I may one day soon strangle him with his sassy lip. You think your toddler asking you “Why?” is annoying? Wait until it becomes a challenging “WHY” whenever you ask the fruit of your loins to do something like “turn off the television.” The “WHY” I now get isn’t a question, it’s a challenge, a la “WHY should I?” Charming.
Also charming is a note I received this morning from him. It states “I’m leving [sic]. I’m not kidding. Seriously.” This was upon realizing that we had locked the computer–after daring to limit his video game/boob tube time–this morning. Assholes.
And Alex, my Momma’s Boy Extraordinaire is almost two. How do I know this without knowing his birthday happens to be popping up at the end of March? Testing. Every single thing he does is to test how far he CAN do it. Like throwing all of his toys down the laundry chute after being told to cease and desist. While Ben went through this at about 3, Alex seems to be entering the Two’s Of Doom.
The cats, who despite being mostly adopted as adults, have gone from being Super Crazy Friendly to 11. Meaning, if you’re even thinking about sitting, standing still or are otherwise in the vicinity of perhaps being able to provide love, you’re pretty much wearing said cat(s). Since they don’t all get along, you can imagine how fun a cat fight is when you’re wearing them all. I love my cats and I’m thrilled that they’re all so earnest to be loved, but damn, sometimes a 20 pound cat smooshing against your body gets a little…cramped.
The dogs–no, we didn’t get rid of Auggie even though I’ve threatened it more times than I can count–are similarly aware that Something Is About To Happen. Which, in dog speak means that they insist upon following me around pretty much 24 by 7. Like last night, for example, when I tried to submerge my hippo-like body into the bath tub (a word to the wise: bathing gets complicated at 36+ weeks), they both sat at the bathroom door, which happened to be open a crack, in order to neurotically watch me.
The cats had split up at this point and one was in the bathroom with me, watching me try and shave my girly bits (didn’t work so well) and assumably laughing at my pathetic plight, while the other two sat behind the dogs, occasionally growling and hissing at each other or the dogs.
And forget having the slightest modicum of privacy while Taking Care of Business In The Bathroom. I have an entourage, including, but not limited to my children, my husband and all of the animals that do not live in cages. It’s no wonder my modesty evaporated years ago. Nothing says “I Love You” like dropping some dookes while talking about dinner-time plans.
Dave is fairing no better himself. Because he’s going to be taking time off when Amelia comes (please baby girl, come soon. I’ll buy you WHATEVER you want if you do), he cannot start any real projects at work, and since we’re all Just Waiting here, he’s having a terrible time really getting motivated to do much besides eat Kettle Corn and rub his belly. JUST LIKE ME!
Couvade, you’re a wily bastard.
And I’m, well, a mess, of course. I’m not sure who isn’t by this point in a pregnancy. I’m shaped remarkably like a daddy long legs right now, so my crotch is giving me the distinct impression that it’s actually trying to split itself in two pieces while my ribs are moaning and groaning by the fact that there’s a creature inside there trying to separate the two halves of their cage.
The act of putting on shoes or pants requires a forklift and an intricate set of blueprints, while I am suddenly beginning to swell up just like a puffer fish, and I’m pretty sure that if this goes on much longer, I might actually be mistaken for the Michelin Man. Or the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
And worst of all is that I’m bored and anxious and pretty damn feeble so I’m kind of stuck moaning and groaning and lying around hoping that each contraction will signal the start of labor. Which isn’t going to happen, of course, as my kids need to be dragged out kicking and screaming.
Help, Internet! This is Aunt Becky typing out a frantic SOS. Oh, and I’m learning from other blogs that it’s National De-lurking Day (or something) so go forth and de-lurk! How am I supposed to fill the days between now and the end of January?