Hello friends. It’s been a spell, hasn’t it? I however can no longer take responsibility for my body or it’s actions. I declare that this 3rd trimester will somehow, someway get me onto at least the local news, if not Watch What Happens Live with Andy Cohen. Let me explain.
Lest you not forget (I ALWAYS WANTED TO USE LEST), I have had a baby before. But hear me now women, it doesn’t matter even one tiny shit bit. You’d think I’d know what I was in for. You’d think I would know what I signed up for. But you know what? I didn’t. I just didn’t. And I take 97% responsibility off my shoulders. Because non first babies get into your lady parts and are like, “aw shit, this place is a mess. It’s all lived in and foul. Guess I can trash the place and it doesn’t matter”. Because baby 2 does.not.give.a.shit. Baby 2 is like I WILL MAKE YOU GAIN 60 LBS. I WILL MAKE YOU FALL ASLEEP AT THE STOVE. I WILL THEN LET THAT BE THE ONLY SLEEP YOU GET FOR 3 DAYS AND NIGHTS. I WILL USE YOUR BLADDER AS A TRAMPOLINE. I WILL OWN YOU.
(my baby also uses one of those lame blue tooth ear pieces.)
And you are totally helpless to their rude behavior. They signed the lease fair and square. They paid first and last month’s rent. All you can do is hold their security deposit when they leave. But they are babies and don’t even have wallets. So what the hell do they care? And this is my point women: THEY DON’T CARE.
So what I’m trying to tell you all, is this: I have a full 6 weeks left (possibly 7). I am definitely bigger than I was at delivery with G. I’m assuming that I’m either growing a mutated watermelon with feet or a 15lb baby inside of me. Both I truly feel are real possibilities. Either way, I’m planning on calling the good people at Guinness (not the beer, the book) and inviting them to my delivery (although the beer people may be more appreciated). But I believe shit will get real in there. I believe that whatever comes out of me will drop jaws.
G says to me daily, “Mommy biiiiig”. Yes, mommy is big. He continues “Belly sooooo big”. Yeah dude, I get it, but way to rub it in. And in yoga class tonight a new girl shows up. I hear her chatting in the back as I pass out on my mat. She says she has only 10 weeks left. I’m like, thank god another big girl in my spot. She walks in and looks like she maaaaybe ate 2 hamburgers. And it looks like I’m actually her surrogate. I said, “hi, I hate you”. And those were the only words that I spoke to her. I need an intervention.
I do not know how I’m psychically, mentally or emotionally going to make it SIX MORE WEEKS. I literally can not cry at one more Honey Boo Boo commercial. And no, I can not explain that. I can’t walk up the stairs one more time and I can not sleep one more night until 4am and then just “hang out” until it’s time to get up. But like I said, we both signed this lease and we’re in this till the end.
I do not know how much I’ll be around here from now until November 11th or 12th or millionth. I don’t know if I can physically hold my body up in this poop chair any longer. But I’ll try and check in so you know I didn’t float myself down a river never to be found again.
And if one single one of you leave me a comment about how ungrateful I am for my pregnancy and baby and I am offending beer drinking babies everywhere, I will literally squeeze a hemorrhoid out of you with my bare hands. I will love the shit out of the baby WHEN IT’S OUT OF MY BODY. For now, we’re just working through our issues.
help me rhonda,
the 3rd MODGmester