So here it is folks: I'm pregnant. Again. And yes, it was planned. I had this ridiculous assumption that the third time around would be a breeze. I guess, mastering the art of puking directly into the garbage could be considered a step up. And after hearing stories of other women's obnoxious cravings for fruit and veggies, I believed that this would be my fate. But once again, the only thing that can quell my nausea is fast food. So far: cheese burgers. And hot dogs. I'm not gonna make it out of this next year under 30 extra pounds, I can already tell. What's the most depressing out of my entire ordeal? I was pregnant the last time my driver's license photo was taken and my face was "retaining water". (That's my excuse and I'm sticking with it!) I finally lost all that darned baby weight and was excited about how I looked, and guess what? I glanced at my driver's license today and it expires when I'm about 8 months pregnant! That's seven more months of cheese burgers and hot dogs! I don't think the photo will be much of an improvement from last time.
I bet most of you are saying, "she shouldn't be whining, she is receiving a precious blessing!"
In response I say, "It's my blog, I can say what I want!" but also, let me illuminate my sitiuation. I have two kids now, so the days of wallowing in miserable peace are gone. I have to be a mommy! Yesterday, I was trying to steal a few minutes of rest on the couch to settle my stomach, when suddenly my one year old dive bombs onto my head and starts pulling my hair and laughing maniacally, and my son hands me the end of a jump rope and starts yelling, "Pull me! Pull me!" So I start dragging him across the floor, while my daughter continues her attack. As Grayson reaches the carpet, I look at him and say, "Grayson I shouldn't pull you on the carpet, the rope might break." After the announcement, my focus drifts to the daughter trying to rip my hair out and I forget I am still pulling on the rope then WHACK!
... The handle of the jump rope pops off in the full force of pulling, my hand snaps back and I stab myself in the neck with a piece of dollar tree plastic. It hurt. Bad.
Sitting there in utter pain, I couldn't help but think: I want three of these things?!?!
Not wanting to scream at my kids for my self-mutilation, I spoke through clenched teeth, "Grayson, pick up those toys." (Pointing to the never-ending mess on the living room floor.) Without question he did his duty, ran back to me, looked me in the eyes and said, "Are you happy now, Mommy?"
I'm not happy. I'm miserable. But seeing that sweet concerned look on my horribly obnoxious three year old made me realize, yes. I do want three of these things.
3 years ago