So. Still pregnant. I have an end date now, carved in stone (but subject to change, as is the wont of the medical community, so I guess it's carved in something porous and erosion prone, like sandstone). The kid, being large and obstreperous, will not be allowed to stay in more than 2 days past my due date, and so if all else fails, I'm getting induced on May 2. Sigh. Fab. Pitocin and upped chances of a C-section. You. Little. Fucker.. For added bonus fun, my doc is on vacation next Tues-Sat. Great, THANKS!

For anyone who's noticed a tinge of depression, why yes, thank you, have some. I want my body back. I want to be able to sneeze without brancing myself first (the other night I failed to and pulled a muscle! From sneezing, people! and inconveniently, the muscle just below my right tit, so breathing? not so much fun.) I want to eat sushi, drink wine, slam a mojito, have a goddamn sandwich without worrying about listeria, not mainline tums all fucking day (thanks to the heartburn, I'm getting approximately 15,000 mg of calcium a day from tums. I am not kidding.) I want to be able to just grab the damn sprayer of as environmentally responsible as we could find in this freakin big ag state pesticide and spritz the dandelions without fretting that my child will No Longer Have a Chance at Harvard Thanks To 12 Neurons Dying. I want to no longer look like a good target fir unsolicted advice. I think if I were still waffling on the whole breastfeeding issue, I would not be nearly the mystical La Leche League magnet I am, but damn, I think I've met by accident every member of the league within a 50 mile radius. For heaven's sake, we were at a sushi place and I was morosely eating thoroughly cooked or strictly vegetarian items, and there was only one other couple in the place. And she had been a La Leche League counsellor for over 20 years! As we, of couse, had to hear about. At length. Even though we had not engaged them in conversation.

I am sorely tempted to get a t-shirt proclaiming that "I am denying my child the best possible start and I don't care." Guess what, I am using disposable diapers, haven't been piping Mozart into my midriff, and plan on starting the kid out in his crib down the hall from the get go. Clearly I suck ass beyond all possible compare, and will shortly have a car up on blocks in my front yard, a cig dangling from my lips, and yell half heartedly at my child as he runs around in filthy clothes chased by the mutt dog.

On the work front, clients are realizing, all at once, that I am Going To Disappear Any Day Now, and are accordingly freaking out. And by freaking out, I mean 'caterwauling on the phone but failing to actually get me stuff in a timely fashion so I can knock it off while I still have time'. Meantime, I am takng care of what I can, partially to keep busy and partially to avoid the inevitable screeches of 'but I neeeeed it' come the first week of May. Doesn't help the big industry conference is May 18-22, so everyone's really stressed. Baaaaaah.

And that's the news from Wenchville. I'm stressed, bored, anxious, bitchy, huge, lumpy, in pain, and just really fed up with this. Whoever designed this Infant Delivery System, be it God or Mother Nature, needs a severe talking to. I have to say, it's a good thing I believe in a divine power that transcends gender and I choose to identify with the more female aspect while acknowledging there's a male aspect, otherwise I'd be rippingly pissed at the Goddess right now, in a sort of hysterical you're female and you STILL chose to do this to us? you sadistic self hatin bitch! kinda psycho irrational way. As it is, I can whisper and hiss to Shekinah about what bastards some of those other sefirot are.

On that highly sacriligious note, I'm off to start working on seder. I figure the more effort I put into anything these days, the more chance my little brat of a child will decide to come early.