Pity Party for ME.

Today I totally constructed my own pity party. . . with no clear data for the tantrum. My husband had to work today, as he does every Sunday. I slept in to the glorious time of 11:15am (Ell was at Glammy & Poppys') and then roused myself to get on with the day. This included some texting with my husband--it wasn't until later that I realized that he had said NOTHING about Mother's Day. This, coupled with the fact that he left my car on empty (despite me being chronically on the verge of labor) AND that social network sites were flooded with amazing reports of thoughtfulness of other husbands left me full of pity for myself and resentment for my husband. I even sent somewhat antagonistic and passive-aggressive texts.

I spun a tail of neglect and carelessness on the part of my husband, especially as he said that he had a card for me, but had wanted to give it in person. A card? A single card when I have provided him with one brilliant, adorable, loving child and have another arriving at any moment? How thoughtless. Callous. Selfish. How could he do this to me? Waaa. Waaaa. Waaaaa.

Imagine my chagrin when that thoughtless husband of mine called Elliott into the bedroom to get my card. . . and they emerged with a card AND a bag from the same jeweler that we got my wedding ring set. Shame! Embarrassment! Sheesh. What was I thinking?

Elliott exclaimed, "Happy BirthdayMother Day!" as I opened the small box to find these:


Beautiful aren't they? I could see that even through the egg on my face.

Polished and Ready

I made a trip to a mall today to get shampoo and conditioner, needed items for the post-baby phase. I also took the time to get threaded so that my eyebrows and upper lip are looking sculpted (in the case of the eyebrows) and hair-free (the upper lip). These were the final two must-do things on my list, especially after my fab pedicure on Saturday. Hell, I even shaved my legs. . . and such. . . So it only figures that the contractions have slowed way-the-heck down, right? Ah well, I figure she must be resisting her entrance because she needs a bit more time. I'm okay with that. I am. I am. I really think so. . .

Sweet Anticipation

I'm in bin laden overload. I just can't read anymore. I can't watch anymore 'inside scoop' news reports. He's dead. I am glad that his particular brand of evil and hate is gone, but don't anticipate this solving major terrorist problems, as there are far too many willing to take his place.

Therefore I'm going to post about me and the impending entrance of one Brooklyn Claire. Oh, she's still baking, that I can promise you. Baking away despite me being dilated to 3 1/2 cm. I'm so caught up in the anticipation and not-knowing that every twinge brings the question: "Is this it?" Each twinge also brings me back to a level of self-centeredness of which I'm not in the least bit proud, but must own up to (yes, I just ended that sentence in a preposition. I'm moving on. *Look, I did it again. *And again. ..).

The update is no real update other than almost constant Braxton-Hicks contractions that are not getting noticeably stronger or closer together. And no, my OB does not make predictive statements about when a baby might arrive. I'm guessing he learned that lesson early on in his practice? Kind of like when I learned that giving unsolicited speech advice is a bad, bad idea.

So yes, I'm ready to meet the wee little girl (I think), but must admit to a foolish level of concern over the weather and the planning coming home outfit. If you'll recall, it's a sleeveless romper. I took ample amounts of time selecting just the right thing and now it's freaking 50 degrees outside! In May! Lucky for us, by Wednesday it'll be in the 80's again. . . and by next Monday? The mid-90s. Yay. I'm guessing I'll still be pregnant then. Pregnant and swollen.