…back again….Welshman’s back…tell a friend…

And enough of my Eminem impersonation. But yes, our Darling Wonderful Spectacular Welshman is back on French soil and is planning on visiting us in the near future! I’m so happy I could pop—and no, that’s not a pregnancy pun—this time.

I love this guy. Anyone whose first words on the telephone to my husband are, “So what’s it like to be ugly?” gets a high rating in my book, and whenever he’s around, the fun never stops. He never lets up on Marc. NEVER. And I. LOVE. IT.

Things like this make passing the time until the end of the eternal pregnancy so much easier. Although there is one thing that scares me. We can think back to when Mr. Welsh was here last time, and some of the things he says still make us belly-laugh. I hope that with fresh new memories I won’t laugh so much just after the exorcism. Laughing while being cut from asshole to appetite isn’t exactly my idea of comfortable.

Scary Baby came back today and brought clothes—like all of the clothes, most of which I was hoping never to see again. When I’d passed the articles on to my sister-in-law, I did so with a (short) list of the things I absolutely wanted back. The rest of it, well, I didn’t really care too much about. But she brought it all back, and then some, or at least it seems that way. There are things in there I swear I’ve never seen before. Oh well, I guess I have no excuse for not packing now.

Packing my actually be a good idea in any case, given the number of harmless contractions I’ve been having lately. I’ve had one “good” contraction and damn, I thought I was going to die there for a while. I’ve never experienced labor, not even for the first one. All of my deliveries have been scheduled ahead of time for various reasons. But one contraction like that and all those feelings of inadequacy or being less than a ‘real’ woman because I didn’t deliver naturally go right the hell out the door. And I usually have a high threshold for pain—usually. But ya’ll women folk who did this the ‘real’ way, respect sista, so glad I ain’t part of your club.

Yes, there are things going on that make me wonder if I’ll actually make it to my scheduled date. Driving makes things really bad, so that’s probably going to be out. My appetite is going away, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing as once it’s on, it must come back off again, and who, really, enjoys dieting? Not I. The baby has dropped, considerably, which is nice too, since I can actually breathe now. Although walking has become…can you say ‘OUCH MOTHERFUCKER’? And there’s the eternal sensation of having to pee, even when there is nothing left to pee. And the ass-terror-roids. Endless complaints I have.

But dear God, please don’t let me go into labor. That one contraction has made me believe Carol Burnett when she said it’s like pulling your bottom lip over your head. Don’t want no parts of that shit.

Besides, I’d miss the Welshman’s visit. Oh, and Vrandi’s, too. Not cool.