Dear #%!# Mini B.
Is it because I didn’t write prenatal blogs about you like I did with your brother?
Is it because I threw caution to the wind this time and ate ham and drank coffee and soda and an occasional (late-term) beer with reckless abandon?
Is it because every kick, punch and cervix bounce over these last nine months didn’t earn you praise, recognition and squeals of WTF-induced excitement?
Is it because your room isn’t totally finished? Or that I can’t just say yes to the name?
WHAT’S THE DEAL, DUDE?!
I will take the blame for the last two. But let me assure you, your room is 90% more complete than your brother’s was AND we aren’t ordering things on Amazon from the hospital AND your crib is built. You’re not even going to sleep in your room for at least two weeks, so STFU about there not being shit hung up on the walls. I hung crap from your ceiling and rearranged it 19 times, that should be enough for you.
As for the name, well @#%$#@!#! deal with it.
And the rest of that crap? THAT’S YOUR BROTHER’S FAULT.
Everything was new when I was pregnant with him so he got prenatal attention all day every day. Except he’s out now and demanding of real life attention and I honestly don’t have the time, energy or attention span to get gooey over your every bout of hiccups. I can ASSURE YOU you will get WAY MORE ATTENTION when you find your way OUT OF MY @#%!@## WOMB.
I drank beer, soda, coffee and ate ham with him, too, so chill out.
And as for the blogging, well. I’m tired. I’m worn out. I was writing freelance nonsense about winter sporting equipment. I had nothing else new to say about being pregnant. And if I did find something new to say, I was just too tired to write it. Guess what – you’ll survive. My readers did. Sort of.
So it’s time to GTFO, you overdue leech.
Dear @#$!@$ Body.
Give me a break. You’re at 5cm. You’ve been stripped of membranes which I know I promised I would never do to you again, but you brought that on yourself. You tricked me with back contractions not once, but TWICE and then stopped.
I’m tired of going to the bathroom every twenty minutes.
I’m tired of taking 1.5 mile walks every night because you aren’t cooperating.
I’m tired of the heartburn, waking up every two hours for NO reason and I’m tired of you jerking me around.
I’m tired of the waddle.
We’ve been a good team this second time around. Not as good as the first time, but we’ve been great partners.
I know neither of us like pain very much, but right now we need it. Let’s man up and take it on. Deal with it and start putting things in motion.
Don’t @#$!@ this up.
Dear @$%!#@$ Hospital.
WTF, man? Your policies were made by assholes.
Halfway dilated and you won’t admit me because I’m not having contractions close enough together?
Even though it’s my second baby and my first labor (though induced) happened super fast and I told you all that and your only suggestions were to walk around Wal-Mart or have sex?!
Yeah, because sex when I’m 40 weeks plus four days, bloated, crampy, hating the world and having some crazy gross discharge sounds like a super fun thing right now. You’re high.
If I have this baby on the side of the road I’m mother@$#%@ suing your ass.
If you “don’t have a bed” for my “scheduled induction” which is still three days away? I’m burning you down.
You’re the worst.
I Hate You.
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