Not that I'm counting. Okay, I'm counting. And I'm forgetful so that means that later tonight I'll have to recount.
My back and pelvic pain are pretty severe. B5 is tucked away nicely, occassionally kicking the crap out of me to make sure I know who owns this body. Needless to say, I'm ready for this to be over. I say let's do it right now. I try talking to the baby, explaining he'll have much more room on the outside. He feigns sleep.
I'm finished packing, for the most part. I have to pack toiletries that I first must buy because I'm not packing the ones I use daily, only to constantly pull them out each day. The last load of Dreft wash is in the washer right now and I just finished the baby quilt.
It's exceptionally hard for me to be patient. After four kids you'd think I'd be better at that, but instead I am worse. Waiting on someone else to get something started that affects me is hard.
I like to get stuff done. I'm kinda good at it. It's sorta my forte. Babies are good at waiting, chilling out, relaxing, doing their own thing. These two things do not go together.
I might take a nap, to make the time pass but I find I've done that a lot lately to the point of putting myself on part-time bedrest and that surely won't get this baby born. I know all the old wives tales regarding how to bring about birth and I'm not interested. For one, I will not injest any liquid or capsule that ordinarily I wouldn't dream of taking. This rule is especially true for any fluid that has "oil" in its name. So I'm sorta stuck.
I am stuck, there's not "sorta" about it. I'm Winnie-the-Pooh stuck in the hunny pot. Or bee's tree. Or wherever he got his fluffy ass stuck. That's me. Fat, fluffy, and stuck, waiting for my baby to pull me out of this mess.
And to complicate matters, all four of my children are acting a bit out of sorts. This is because we are in Post-Holiday Status (PHS). PHS is when they are all coming down, quite crankily, from their sugar highs. The highs wouldn't have been so bad if not every single member of our extended family hadn't shoved mass amounts of sugar down their throats yesterday. PHS, put frankly, makes them assholes.
Although G4 seems to be in a good mood. While I was trying to go Potty (capital P = #2), she stood outside the door singing to me. Anyone who hasn't had the experience of being serenaded with "Feliz Navidad" while trying to take a crap is surely missing out.
