Marshal is working this weekend and I hate it. I know there are a lot of people with much more inconvenient and disruptive schedules, but I'm just sick of it. There is zero normalcy to this schedule and I find myself at my most complete wits end. I'm tired of juggling mass schedules, missing events with friends and family, and not having a freakin' Saturday morning together for three weeks. The bigger I get in this pregnancy, the less I can tolerate the little things that irritate me. Maybe it's my out of control weight gain or painful constant braxton-hicks contractions or lack of sleep due to insomnia but sometimes I think I'm just going to explode with emotion.
Molly has consistently wet the bed everyday this week, which means my mornings are showering Molly and doing two loads of laundry before I can even start on the other piles of stuff that need my attention, which never really get done because of the other two needy human beings living in my house. I am SO behind on cleaning which is why I think I'm falling a part. Slowly. One piece at a time. First laundry doesn't get done so there goes my patience. Then a bowl of cereal gets knocked over on the floor so there goes my ability to form proper sentences. Next an exploded diaper, then broken glass, then a claim from insurance will be denied, four ants will crawl across my counter, TV isn't entertaining enough for John's attention....and now I'm completely insane.
Eat some chocolate and shut-up, Margaret. I know, right? A lot of people have it way worse off than you. I know, shut-up.
From the other room I hear Molly ask , "Johnny are you tired?"
Molly: "mom, can you plop Johnny in the crib?"
Molly: "I guess Johnny is going to lay down while I push him," he's on the rocking chair, "he just doesn't do anything sometimes."
Old Navy has some kind of Super Cash thing going on so I might oblige and treat myself to another pair of extremely large sweat pants that I can mix into the rotation of other extremely large sweat pants I wear exclusively. Because online retail therapy is the same as spending an enjoyable Saturday browsing racks and smiling at other sane human beings as I pass through their shops.
Johnny keeps saying, "ereal. earal." He chooses to keep the C silent in cereal, but I keep pretending that I don't know what he's saying so I don't have to get up to give him food. But then he looked at me and said, "help, preeeese (please)," I can never resist. So this ridiculous rambling of a post will end.
Forgive me. 10 more weeks....10 more weeks....10 more weeks....