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In Which I Complain

I’m finishing up 33 weeks over here, and I’ve just hit a wall, man.  Thank God for Tylenol PM or I don’t think I’d get any sleep at all.  And what’s with the constant Braxton Hicks?  They strike a couple times an hour at work, and every time, I’ve got to lumber to the restroom to pee leak a couple teaspoons of water.  I’m peeing, like, five times an hour … something like that.

And can we talk about my hips?  Constantly sore.  They feel like they’re crumbling to dust from all the pressure.  Lay on one side and that hip slowly tingles itself into a dull, throbbing pain.  So I heave myself onto my other side and that hip succumbs to the same fate.  And my hand too, which I forgot to remove from beneath my massive weight.

My only respite is the shower.  Which I turn on full blast, and then I sit my big butt down on the tile and just sit.  And sit.  And sit some more. 

My 2-year-old daughter has been sick all week long.  At one point she hit the scary 103 temperature mark, and we bolted for the doctor who was awfully calm about the whole thing.

Violet is currently past the scary fever point and is now in tyrant mode.  I have been subject to Little Tyrant for the whole of this week, and all I can say is, I want my sweet baby back!

If you don’t hear from me next Monday, send reinforcements.

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