You're 25 weeks old. On the whole, I think even your annoying quirks are amazing! and cute! and a miracle! Like when you shove your bottom into my colon as hard as you can. It's uncomfortable, but then I start thinking about little baby butts and how little and cute you are (actually, you aren't, since you haven't grown many fat cells under all that flappy skin, and you probably resemble some CGI character from Star Wars at the moment, but we can pretend), and how I can't wait to meet you, and that makes it all okay.
But there's this one thing you do that is absolutely not okay.
I cannot breathe. I realize you don't understand this, since you're getting everything you need via umbilical cord, and, while you are "breathing", it's just little practice breaths of amniotic fluid (which, eeew). But I feel like somebody shoved me in a tiny closet and sealed off the door. And it's all your fault. And I have 15 more weeks to go. By the time you drop, I will have suffocated to death.
It wasn't so bad when it was just the occasional thing, but now it's all the freaking time. Mama's sick of it.
Here's part of the problem: I have an abnormally short torso and big, meaty lungs, which leaves precious little space for an extra human being.
To give you an idea: Hebrew Friend is 2-3 inches shorter than I am. When we sit down next to each other, she's at least an inch taller.
Or, for you who are more visually oriented (and because I like to make bad diagrams),
You can see how this might be a problem.
I ate a half a carton of Edie's light mint chocolate chip ice cream yesterday. When James brought it home the other night, and I saw "light" on the top--they hide the word so you can barely see it--, I cried (quietly, so as not to hurt his feelings). I haven't tasted light ice cream in years, and there's a reason for that. But Edie's light ice cream tastes like creamy, frozen cocaine, and I can't stop eating it.
Another thing I can't stop eating is the Healthy Choice chicken/turkey with gravy and mashed potato meals. I don't know what's in that gravy. I probably don't want to know. I just want more.
Last night, I went to bed around 3 (am). It would have been sooner, but I couldn't stop itching. This usually only happens when I've had 37 cups of coffee or no water all day. But I had just two cups of coffee yesterday (long before bed), and about twelve gallons of water. Still, the itchies. Aagh!
Then, by magic, I woke up at 8:30. This is the second morning in a row that this has happened to me. Yesterday, I woke up at 8:00, stayed awake until 10:00, then napped until one in the afternoon.
Maybe it's the lack of oxygen to my brain.
It doesn't seem to matter how much crap I box up and take over to the house. There's just as much stuff in the apartment as there was two months ago. It would probably help if I stopped buying books. I love the library, and I love having free books to read, but there's something beautifully satisfying about owning the books you love, even if they're cheap paperback novels (thus my enormous collection of Nero Wolfe mysteries). I bet if I stopped buying them, though, we'd be able to afford a Mercedes in about three weeks.
(James, if you're reading this, no, I don't really buy that many books.)
I need to shut up. I have a lot of junk to pack up today. And laundry to fold. Laundry that's sitting on the couch. The lair of Shelob. The couch where spiders go to scheme. And breed. And snack on my juicy toes.
Maybe I'll have James fold the laundry.