Contractions. Still. All the time. But they're not regular, so they don't count. I spend a lot of time communing telepathically with the baby. I keep telling her it's safe to come out now, but she doesn't seem to care. I wouldn't either. It's 99 degrees in there. Out here, it's about 64.
(Now that I'm a full-blown adult with all the bills that come along with it, I'm learning to tolerate the cold. The heat doesn't come on until the temperature outside becomes life-threatening.)
Honestly, we have so much stuff left to get yet that it's better she doesn't come for a week or two (at least). But man am I ready. She doesn't need a crib or a dresser right off the bat, right? We have a bassinet, and the girl has more closet space (with shelves!) than I ever dreamed of at that age.
I've become hideously cranky the last few days. I'm cranky with everyone and everything. Everybody sucks and is stupid and would you please get your stupid cart of the aisle? And that perfume smells like skunks. You hair looks like it just flew in from 1986. Must you smack your gum as loudly as possible?
James just can't win. Sometimes I can't stand to be touched, other times I need him to just sit on the couch and put and arm around me. But this is stuff he should just KNOW, and if he ASKS, well, what kind of husband are you if you can't read my mind? And your breath stinks! Chew some gum! But don't make any chewing noises. You know I HATE chewing noises. Honestly, what is your problem?
Honey, I really don't hate you. I hate the world in general; you just happen to be around all the time. No, I don't know why I'm so angry. Yes, I'm doing my best to control myself. If I smile sweetly at you with my jaw clenched, it means I'm simmering on the inside and know I'm being an idiot, but knowing that I'm being an idiot only makes me angrier, and it would really be best for both of us if you stepped away before I bite you face off.
It's like the most horrific PMS times a thousand. I don't really know where it's coming from. I'm not terribly uncomfortable. In fact, since she's finally dropped a little, I'm a little more comfortable. I can breathe most of the time, and I can eat more than a single rice cake without getting so full I want to puke. Also, hardly any heartburn anymore. Bad things: walking is hard, and I feel a thousand pounds heavier all of a sudden. But still! I'm more comfortable than I was a week ago.
So why does it feel like everything in this world is conspiring to be as irritating as possible? The optimistic part of me says this means labor is nigh. But I've never heard that before, so I'm pretty sure I'm BSing myself. The pessimistic part of me says that I'm just a huge jerk.