39 weeks.


I haven’t been blogging because I don’t feel like it.  My fingers are so swollen that my iPhone has ceased to recognize them as digits and I have to tap things up to five times.  My feet look like they’re wearing the fat suit of Gwyneth Paltrow in “Shallow Hal.”  Today when my bladder was full I had to crawl to the bathroom because the pressure was too much on my disjointed pubic symphysis (pelvic joint).  I can’t unload the dishwasher.  It’s hard to vacuum.  It’s getting really real up in here folks.


Owen’s been playing a lot of iPad games.  He even knows how to stream Disney Junior.  I’m not bragging, I’m not proud.

And not that I would want to have my baby 5 weeks early, but the fact that Kim Kardashian was a swollen desperate pregnant woman was a small comfort to me that is now gone.  You are now dead to me Kim.  You hurt me deep.

I recently read What to Expect’s first week postpartum section and started to get an anxiety attack.  I think I have post traumatic mastitis disorder.  I didn’t enjoy nursing on one side, and I don’t want to do it again.  So, here’s to hoping milk will come in on the breast I had surgery on, and that it won’t be horrifically painful when the milk comes in because of scar tissue.



The bright spot is mother.  She comes in 6 days.

And as soon as I see Maisy and put her in her sweet, tiny, pink clothes it will be fine.


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