I have definitely reached “that point” in pregnancy where it is more annoying and exhausting than anything else. This is the part where you almost totally forget that you are doing a beautiful thing by baking this human being. Because you are so tired, achy, ornery and generally pissed off that it is all you can do not to stab random people while waiting in line at the grocery store, you know, because they are wearing bad shoes or a Billy Ray Cyrus tee shirt. Am I feeling a little illogical? Possibly. Unreasonable? Could be. But I am so CLOSE…yet so far away, people. And I just want to feel normal again. And I just want to sleep. For, like, more than 3 hours. (And yes, I am aware that I am about to have a baby and that this is a total pipe dream. Don’t remind me, okay?)

Up to this point, I have been really proud of myself. Because I have had very few incidents of psychosis. I have felt good. I have smiled, even when I wanted to hide in my bed for two days and eat ice cream. And I haven’t threatened to punch anyone in the throat. (Except at my Sprinkle. And then it was just my best friend’s wife. Because she kept talking about my having twins next time. Insinuating that there would be a “next time” to speak of. So she totally deserved throat punch threats. At least I didn’t actually DO it. But I like her. SO…)

And then the last few days, I have felt like I was drowning. Like, I felt overcome with all of this insane, pregnant lady anxiety and emotion. And I just couldn’t hang. All of that optimism I have been gloating about flew right out the window and I started, not only dreading having two tiny people to chase around and keep alive, but really hating everything about being a stay-at-home-mom. I started feeling lonely. And scared. And irritated at my husband for continuing to get me knocked up and not even being apologetic about it. And then expecting me to handle it with some sort of superhuman ease. (Which I thought I was totally capable of, until now.) I have been tired. And cranky. And close to tears at almost every moment. And I just wanted someone to take my precious Baby L for the day and let me marinate in this idea that I can DO this and I won’t fail. Because I need some assurance. I need some REAL PROOF that I am not going to fall flat on my face. But there isn’t anyone to take that precious baby for the day so I can marinate. There isn’t any “time out” for me at 8 months along. And MB, well, he just doesn’t get it. Because he feels stress too. But he doesn’t understand THIS stress. THIS kind of stress is reserved solely for the mother-to-be. And it is a shitty place to hang out alone. I am back at that place where I don’t want him to get to do ANYTHING that I can’t do. I don’t want him to smoke a cigarette. Or have a beer. Or hang out with his friends. I am jealous of his lack of fetus. Because I am huge and miserable and have two months left before I can have my body back. But even then, internet, things will never be the same. And that’s my fear. And he just doesn’t get it. And that pisses me off. And then I feel awful.

How will I make it through 4am feedings and spitting up and leaky boobs? I mean, I made it through the first time, and no one died. But I JUST DID THIS. And I am quite happy not having to wear giant pads in my bra. And not smelling like baby puke. And being asleep (most of the time) at 4 am. (Even if there is a small child wrapped around my face.) I was growing to like the fact that my little one is rolling around and readying herself to walk. And saying things that sound more like words than crazy baby babble. And now I am starting from scratch. And holy shitballs, how terrifying is that?

I know that this is all probably just some hormonal cliffjump I have just taken. And I am sure the parachute will open soon enough and I will coast through the rest of the way and then I will give birth to this meatloaf and love him and care less and less about breast pads and baby puke. But in the meantime, can I just get a nap? And some ice cream?