Today blew. I slept horrendously last night, woke up late, and somehow single handedly wrangled my son in an extremely crowded doctor's office full of people who didn't want to be there. You know those children that you see sometimes in public who run back and forth and throw their toys across the room and tear all the paper off the patient table and rip their shoes off in the middle of the floor and try to stick their race car in with the cotton balls? That would be my son this morning. And you know the moms that come with those children? The frazzled looking ones that are often sporting large pregnant bellies and horrible hair and enormous circles under their eyes? That would be me this morning.
I've had a pretty standard pregnancy so far this time around, but today's appointment was like the twilight zone. The high this, low that, do this, do that circle of tests and advice that left me confused the first time around (with Max's pregnancy) flat out frustrated me today (with Henry's pregnancy). I am frustrated with myself because I don't carry pregnancy easily and I'm also frustrated with insensitive male doctors who don't bother to see how far along I am before walking into the room and, in my appointment, look down their noses at me and say I shouldn't gain any more weight for the rest of pregnancy because I've "gained enough to house a seven-and-a-half pound baby". Please. This is not 1965 and I haven't even hit the twenty-pound range yet so leave me alone.
Anyway. End rant.
After nap time, Max and I pulled out the fingerpaints and colored our bad morning away. Andrew came home from work in the middle of this and, when the doorknob starting twisting, Max starting dancing like a little cartoon character whoopin' and hollerin' around a campfire. Then he greeted his daddy with a dripping, purplish-black high five, turned back around, and said "red!". So I slopped some more red paint onto a sheet of paper for him and he kept painting away.
Annnnd he's also the funniest little bed (and daddy!) hog.
Also, can we stop and talk for a minute about how old my little bear has become? I keep catching myself thinking "where did you come from?!" lately because, now-a-days, preschool and soccer games and kindergarten don't seem that far off. Like, I can easily picture him as a six-year-old and that turns me into a blabbering mess. Apparently I am a baby mom? As in, I want my children to stay babies? And maybe that means I will cry at least once a day during every birthday week for the rest of my life? Probably, but I'm hoping it's just the pregnancy hormones.
And THAT is the end of this post.