That’s about how I feel today. Just ugh. I’m finally sleeping enough. Well, if you add all the time I spend snoring together then you get a pretty impressive figure. I just don’t manage to sleep very long stretches of time, and that, that wears a body out. And my body? It’s very worn out.

I’m probably the only woman on the planet who loathes being pregnant to this point. I hate it. HATE it. Not only is it long (and yes, I give thanks every single day that we are not elephants, but c’mon, 9 months is long), but it’s a pain in the ass, literally.

And this go ‘round it’s not been so bad. I haven’t been struck down with the ass-terror-roids that I had last time, or the Restless Leg Syndrome (oh Thank You God for that one). My diabetes is controllable through diet and my blood pressure nightmare seems to be calming down. And still I complain. Yes! I do complain. It’s my job.

Because I really HATE being pregnant. I hate the inconvenient contractions that, while far from painful, do make breathing EXTREMELY difficult for a few seconds. And I hate all that pressure on my pelvic bone that makes me feel like I’m being split in half all the time. I hate the inability to find a comfortable position in which to sleep without much difficulty and then, when said position is finally achieved, I hate that my bladder speaks up and makes itself felt in a painful way, even though we just were in the bathroom together five or ten minutes before. My bladder is not my friend.

I HATE my boobs. They are my worst enemy, well, they and my husband and kids who can’t help but touch them constantly even though I’m constantly SCREAMING at them to STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY BOOBS. They hurt, and if that’s not an understatement, then by God, we all should pitch in and re-elect Bush for a third term. The fact that I’ve been ‘engorged’ (the Exorcist’s word) with milk for MONTHS now isn’t helping things. And the fact that all this milk I’m carting around will probably dry right the hell up once the newest one arrives just makes it that much more frustrating. And my boobs, they stick right out there, assuring that if anything is to come in contact with my body, even by accident, it’ll hit the boobs first.

My hips are giving me constant hell, too. This is coming from that belly that technically sticks out a bit father than the boobs (but as it is lower, and not magnetically charged, doesn’t seem to get touched nearly as much). I’m all belly again this pregnancy, well as all belly as someone with an ass like mine can be, and all that lovely weight rests on my hips like a load of bricks. And my hips? They’re lazy. They don’t like carrying around bricks. Or babies.

And babies? Those other two haven’t gotten past the need of being carried and held and rocked and loved up. And all of this is just fine and good. It’s all part of having kids, right? But there’s the boob and belly factor, and Pooplette especially does not appreciate being kicked by her little sister and tries to avenge herself every single time I have to change her diaper—and trust me, lately that’s been about once every five seconds.

The kicks from the inside coupled with the two roustabouts wiggling around on the outside make for less than comfortable twinges of PAIN. I don’t like pain. In fact, after being pregnant, being in pain is the thing I hate the most.

June 4th cannot get here fast enough (and yes Deb, in reference to your smart-aleck comment about ‘not much longer now’, YOU can afford to say that since yours is on the outside now and time changes when that happens). In fact, the sooner the better, even though I have had absolutely no nesting instincts this time at all. Nothing at all. Baby coming? And? That’s about it.