Five and a half weeks of pregnancy remaining: we’re in the home stretch friends.

Looking back on the past eight months I feel a sense of guilt and sadness that I didn’t enjoy it as much as my previous pregnancy. Everything is different this time: morning sickness, colds, pains, aches, fatigue and it wore me down (continues to wear me down) to the point where I want this all to be over.

With just over five weeks remaining, I am feeling the best I have this entire time. I have a little more energy, I don’t have any illness *touch wood* - no congestion or cough  HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! and I’ve actually had some energy to work on painting and preparing for this baby’s arrival. Really? Not being sick for the past 2 weeks has been a Godsend: the energy sucked out of me when I’m sick is so radical, and the elevated depression is nearly crippling.

I feel guilty because this could very well be my last pregnancy - as we have yet to decide whether we want more and if, logistically, we can even afford more children.

Approaching my twenty-seventh birthday (May 16th!!) and never bearing a child again: I just can’t wrap my mind around it.

I thought all my life that I would married and start having children by twenty-five, and I did just that. But now I’m curious:  What’s left for this life of mine? Sounds pretty cliché, I know, but I really wonder.

Now I raise the children we’ve brought into the world, work (until I die) and grow old with Mike, is that really it? Will we travel? Will we pick up new hobbies? Have something to do to enjoy the next oh, 60 years of our lives?

I envision the next 10 years sitting in front of the television at night wishing that the kids were older so that Mike and I could travel and have time alone again.

Then the following 5 years after that, I be wishing that my kids were younger and spent some time with their parents - and where the hell they are at all hours of the night?

Ultimately, Mike and I will be empty nesters. Home alone. Sitting in our respective rocking chairs in front of the TV watching the news before we retire for the night at 10:30.

Maybe to our separate beds because I snore so loud.

I know I sound so down and out about getting old - but when I see my neighbours and grandparents, and I think of how I see them spend their time while retired, it’s hard not to wonder if I’m going to be that lonely old gramma sitting on the porch, knitting, waiting for the day to end because I’m so damn bored.

Or am I going to be the one that ditches the old lady persona and is seen skydiving at 70 years old.

Being that we’re such homebodies and seldom take part in adventurous activities now, I see myself knitting on the porch.

Maybe I’ll be the one sluggin’ back a few beers and cat calling to the shirtless lawn boy cutting my grass.

When the phone rang in our house growing up, my mom would grimace. It was usually for me, and it was usually my best friend or current love lust interest. She knew that the phone line would be occupied for the night as I grabbed the cordless and headed to my room for privacy.

I was known to keep that phone tied up for hours. Rarely did anyone else in our house ever use it, nor did they try and get me off of it. I think they found peace in the fact that I was locked away in my room and not spewing my teenage mellow drama throughout our peaceful home.

As years passed and high school ended, I moved on to college where I lived with my four best friends. There was no need to be on the phone - expect to Mike when he lived on the other side of the country for work over three months of my last year - another post all together.

My love for the phone diminished. As I became an adult, with my own phone, it decreased further to the point of disdain now that the telemarketers got my number. I hate talking on the phone. I hate just about everything to do with the phone: maybe because work has taken the fun! out of it since it’s more of a work tool for work stuff then for the enjoyment and gossip that I used to get out of it.

With my pregnancy winding down (OMG! 6 weeks left!) I’ve been getting the last of my appointments and registrations and bookings set up: requiring the phone.

One important registration that I’ve put off was booking with the hospital to save time when I arrive, ready to pop this child out. So I called this morning to set up an appointment with the labour and delivery department for a tour and registration. It’s a brand new hospital that I have yet to visit, so I think it’s a little imperative that I get some kind of idea where the hell I’m supposed to go.

I called the number provided by my doctor only to be greeted by a tin can voice directory.

Great start.

I navigated through part of the menu that took me to the hospital I was actually looking for fine; but then the voice activation kicked in.

Let me just state that whomever, in their right mind, thinks that voice activation is a good idea is a complete fucking idiot. Voice activation is just another one of Satan’s tool to frustrate people to the point of almost committing unlawful acts of violence and instilling pain on those who may be in the vicinity while trying to use that damn system.

I said, “Department” as requested by the tin can voice, who then proceeded to repeat it back to me.

Piece of shit is mocking me.

Okay, I think, please just give me the list of departments.

Then it hung up on me.

Great.

As I began cursing the stupid mechanical voice, I hear snickers coming from the other side of the office. Not only am I being mocked by a pre-recored voice, I’m providing entertainment for my colleagues.

I start again.

I try pressing zero to avoid the bullshit and get to a real person.

“You’ve pressed an incorrect key.”

Pressing zero repeatedly usually works, so I try that.

“There is no patient here by that name.” It mocks.

WTF!? Crap.

Hang up.

Begin to curse The Voice again only to hear more snickers from the peanut gallery.

Try again.

Back to press this, press that, press this… then say “Department”

“DE-PART-MENT.” I stated.

The voice lists off the HOSPITALS again!.

I say the one I’m looking for: no trouble, it actually understood me. We moved on to the list of departments.

“Say the name of the department you are looking for.”

“Obstetrical Booking.” I stated.

“I’m sorry. I did not understand your request.”

“OB-STET-RICAL-BOOK-ING.”

“I’m sorry you seem to be having trouble. I will now transfer you.”

Praise the Lord! A HUMAN! I get to talk to a human being!!

At this point I’m about ready to jump up and down jubilantly screaming that I had defeated The Voice.

Then ANOTHER fucking pre-recorded voice interrupts my victory celebration.

“I’m sorry. Our office is now closed. Our office hours are from 8am to 6pm. Please try your call again at a different time.”

Then it hangs up on me.

I remove the phone from my ear and stare at it.

It’s fuckin’ 10:30am! 10:30!

It’s not a weekend, nor is it a statutory holiday.

As I curse the phone, the stupid departments, and the fact that their damn voice doesn’t even know the damn time, I hear bursts of laughter from the other side of the office.

I’m certain that damn tin can voice is laughing at me too.

Very early on in our relationship, talk of children ensued. I just turned 19 when we began dating, I was in college and children were the last thing on my mind. In fact, I think all I was worried about at that time was which bar we would be going to that night.

Mike has always been very keen on having children, as was I; but not yet. I wanted to finish school, get a job - which hopefully would become a career - and maybe settle down a little more. He didn’t pressure nor did he insist, but there would be hints and suggestions along the way making me realize that he was quite serious - surprisingly for someone who was just 4 years my senior and very much a partier too.

After 4 years of living together, the conversations came more frequently even though he never once made an official request to start trying for children, though, there was plenty of practice time occurring *nudge, nudge, hint, hint* I knew at that point things were only going to progress.

I suggested getting a dog.

Buy myself some time, you know.

And so our beloved pit bull, Briggs, entered the picture. She was just the companion Mike needed and the distraction I was looking for. Though, I love her to death, I digress. I had ulterior motives. She would be the “child” that Mike so craved and she would be my Savior from bearing children at that point in my life.

A couple years passed, Briggs’ newness diminished and rearing children once again reared it ugly head.

Though, it wasn’t so ugly anymore.

At 25 I had a stable and comfortable position in the workforce, we had been together for 6 years and engaged for 5 of those.

And I’d already played The Dog card.

Fast forward nine - okay eleven if you include the months that were unsuccessful - months and Carter arrives.

I’ve always been comfortable with children and babies so I really didn’t think I had that much to learn. I could hold my own with diaper changes, dressing, handling, etc.

One thing that threw me off that no one explained?

The crying.

Mine. Not his.

I would cry at the drop of a hat. Literally.

Mike gaving me a hug.
Commercials.

Driving in the car.

Someone asking me how I was doing.

Mike leaving for work.

Carter sleeping in his bassinet.

The night time feedings.

The first projectile vomit.

My sore boobs.

Someone saying how cute my baby was.

Tears would weld in my eyes or, if I was home - alone, I would full on bawl my eyes out.

I’m a crier by nature. I cry when I’m happy, laughing, sad, mad - you name it I cry… but I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much in my life expect when Milli Vanilli was found out to be fake as I did in those first few weeks of parenthood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a lot about motherhood you wish you’d known before becoming a mom. Write about it anytime between now and Sunday, then send a link to your post to PBN. It’s this week’s Blog Blast, sponsored by Discovery Health and their new series “Deliver Me”.

I was going to mindlessly post a meme today because I really can’t think of anything fun!, witty! or entertaining! to write about but photobucket is on the fritz and I am impatient. My mind has taken a vacation. The hamster has left the wheel.

If you’re twittering with me, you may have noticed my somewhat delirious rant at the end of yesterday (or my end of yesterday, which was about 3:30pm for everyone else that works and takes their jobs seriously *ahem*). I believe I said something along the lines of: I’m dizzy and feel sick to my stomach. I’m going home. Dear God I can’t take this anymore! This baby must be evicted soon or so help me I may need a padded room. So I may have exaggerated a little seeing as I can only twitter 140 characters.

Something came over me: I couldn’t look at my computer screen for one more second; I felt like the entire room was spinning and I had to get out of here, NOW! I sat in my car, let my hair down and closed my eyes for what felt like a half hour but was actually only like a minute, then drove to the daycare (which I don’t even know if you’d consider sitting in stop-and-go traffic at about a mile an hour driving) and got Carter. We went home, I put up the baby gate in the living room and slept on the couch as he wrecked havoc on my living room. I was in bed for the night at 7:30pm and I feel like I could have stayed there all day.

I called to see if I could bump up my prenatal visit to today, instead of tomorrow, but no go. She’s just too damn popular it seems.

IMing with a friend this morning, she mentioned how she felt bad that I was having such a difficult time with this pregnancy. And as much as I wallow in self pity and everyone has their own sense of what is bad and difficult - this isn’t bad. This is inconvenient, uncomfortable and just a pain in the ass. Difficult is bedrest, incompetent cervix, preeclampsia, infertility and difficulty carrying to term, among other things.

I just whine and bitch a lot because I am horrible at being sick. I hate sick. Sick has consumed my life since September. I have been struggling with intensifying bouts of depression accumulating with every cough that increases my incontinence, the congestion and the vomiting. Now also facing constipation from the increased iron supplements which leave me with cramping, bloating and pain!. And that pain! is even more intolerable with every cough.

Woe is me. Oh, woe is me.

But! this is not difficult.

I just have to keep telling myself that.

Soon there will be a precious little baby here (hopefully not before I finish the bedrooms and actually have a nursery set up because I’m totally freaking out about that) and there will be a whole new set of complaints: sore boobs, sore coochie, tired, crying but I mustn’t fret because along with that there will be new baby smell, cooing and a new life that I’ve helped bring into this world and need I mention an Entire! Year! Off! Work! *wOOt*

Soon there will be a baby here. OMG. Another baby.

/pep talk