I obviously need some sort of hobby.

It's that time of my pregnancy folks!

Time for the crazies to take over, for my friends to stop taking my calls, for you all to wonder why the fuck you keep coming back here to read anything I write because I am a disgusting, disgusting psycho, and for my husband to wish he had never poked me in any sort of reproductive capacity, whatsoever.

And now, with me on bed rest, and my husband laid off, it makes for a whole lotta sitting on the couch staring at each other. Ok, him more staring, me slapping him across he face with random dramatic questions and ideas, that demand immediate attention and answers, despite how consistently fucking ridiculous they are. A comically disturbing production that often goes a bit like this:

First, my sweet ass idea to stay home and have the baby in our bathtub. It sounds totally cool, though I don't know that I could ever again bath in a place that once held a literal stew of placenta and birthing goo. Plus, it sounds like a lot of work. Not so much the labor part, but the part where I would have to clean all the dried globs of hair off my shower wall and rid the tub of toys, bath crayons and rusty old razor heads.

Then, I move onto my gamut of begging my husband to do the things I can no longer effectively do, like paint my toenails, shave my bikini area, and cut the crust off my cream cheese, tomato and roast beef sandwiches. He refuses to do any of it. Obviously, he is unappreciative of the human sacrifice I am making to populate this planet and carry on his family name.

Onto a quick explanation of how childbirth is not a spectator sport, and no, his mom cannot be in the room. I mean, who the crap wants to watch that gore fest!? I don't even want to be there, between the blood, liquid, uterine liner, and destruction and ripping of once super cute human flesh...heave. And, I don't need a mirror to watch the destruction first hand to make the whole experience any more magical. What happens to my lady envelope during the birthing process is between God, my OB, my hubby, my nurse, and the eleventy billion medical students they cram in my room. Not me, and certainly not my mother in law.

A reminder that the boxes and boxes of Peanut Butter Patties that will very soon be stuffed into our freezer are, in fact, mine. Not his. The Thin Mints are his. Period.

And concluding with the same old argument of the ages...whether or not I pooped on the table during delivery. This fear is always in the back of my head, although I can tell you from experience that it is the last thing on my mind come time to push. I just hate the thought of anything but flowers, rainbows and babies being expelled from my body in the delivery room.

I wonder if my OB wrote it down in my chart...whether or not I am a labor pooper?

My husband swears he didn't noticed if I did.

So, either I'm awesome and totally didn't poop.

I did and he is being wonderfully kind and gentlemanly.

Or, I did, and it was so horrific he can't even acknowledge it happened without throwing up everywhere and never having sex with me again.