Thought this was cute

[Q-vo]

...And some good insight on something that we, males, could never understand.

http://yamarablog.blogspot.com/

Tuesday, July 22, 2008
STILL. PREGNANT.
Week 40. No baby. Just so you know. Week 40 is like THE last week. I mean you can go over. But fuck that.

Baby's showing no signs of budging. Apparently I give good womb. Which is like--nice.
But fuck that.

Get. Out. Now.

Here's the problem with being tired of being pregnant. You start hoping for horrible things. Like last week, when I was at the doctor's for my weekly non-stress test. Basically I'm laid out with a fetal monitor wrapped around my tummy. The doctor is watching for movement. 2 movements in 20 minutes and the baby's A-OK. Anything less and they whisk you off to the hospital. Monitor you more. Possibly induce you and "take" the baby.

So in my case the baby moved once in about 15 minutes. Doctor's furrowing his brow somewhat concerned. He gives me water to drink and zaps my tummy with the tummy zapper hoping to get her going. And then he leaves.

I weigh my options: Continue on this ridiculous ride of swelling, discomfort and fatness? Or get off at the next stop aka Induction City.

I tell the baby-- "Okay look. I don't REALLY want you to be in distress. But if you could like fake it--like the time mommy faked a miscarriage to get out of a final in college (shamefully true story)--then we could go to the hospital and you can come out and then we'll go get ice cream!"

I DON'T have a rider daughter. She will NOT be my partner in crime. The damn goody two shoes perked right up. Performed her stupid 2nd movement in the stupid 20 minutes and then I had to feign relief so the doctor didn't see just how inappropriate a mother I was.

Desperate times man, is all I gotta say.
No excuses.
Desperate times.

Now I'm giving her the silent treatment. And you know what? She deserves it.

--------------------------------------------

Friday, July 25, 2008
Open letter to the Baby
Dear Baby,

It is now 2 DAYS past my due date and you're late. Now I'm only gonna say this once, Baby. GET OUT. You've long since over stayed your welcome. I find your tardiness rude and inconsiderate. At this point you're just squatting. I know what you're thinking-- "well I'm just a fetus". YOUNGER FETUSES THAN YOU HAVE BEEN PUNCTUAL! SOMETIMES EARLY!

Thanks to you I've gained nearly 65 lbs. I have stretch marks. Bad hips. Saggy boobs. And I walk like Fred Sanford. The longer you stay the saggier everything gets. So you understand why I need you out.

But before you do let us discuss the issue of payment.

For the last nine months I haven't been meeting my earning potential. No one hires pregnant chicks. You on the other hand have received free room and board, meals and access to what's now become a pretty cramped hot tub. (What are you filming The Surreal Life in there?)

In return you've given me nothing but grief. (Okay and maybe you'll open my life in ways I could never imagine and love me unconditionally, blah blah blah). You're a freeloader, Baby. And I suspect your dastardly plan is to continue to be one. Therefore, I expect to be compensated for the last 9 months at my earning rate before you were conceived.
I suggest you get a job. Immediately.

I've put in an application for you at the Baby Gap.

Not too sure who hires newborns but that's not my problem is it? It's time to earn your keep Baby! Pay what you owe! You think you can just swim around all day in your precious amniotic fluid, playing with your stupid umbilical cord, using my internal organs as a speed bag and owe nothing?
Think again!

Now listen, I'm sure you're sweet. (Albeit, OBVIOUSLY, selfish). Sucks that your first minutes of life will be spent managing an eviction and a collections notice (Yes I have involved a Collections Agency. Mommy means business). But, thus is life.

I suggest you keep an eye on your credit rating. People like me who are tired of being pregnant just may ruin your FICO score. I'm not above such pettiness, Baby. Don’t test me.

Upon your arrival we can discuss payment plans and debt consolidation. I’m totally reasonable.

I hope you've learned your lesson. No one likes a parasite. Mommy loves you.
But seriously-- You're trespassing. I've called the Sheriff. Pack it up.

Etcetera, etcetera,

Mommy

 

[Cleopatra_J]

This was cute... I laughed... and she has reaffirmed that I will not be pregnant anytime soon in this life!!!

 

[Chicutie]

I agree it was cute

 

[Q-vo]

Daaamn! It's on now!!

Declaration of War
Alright Baby,

You OBVIOUSLY didn't get the memo. I am now 5 days past due. 5 DAYS! I'm like a freak of nature! Do you know how funny my body looks?! I put on a dress today and it looked completely ridiculous. YOU were in the way. Dress hater. Oh but when YOU put on a dress every one is gonna "ooh" and "ahh" and take pictures and comment on how adorable you are blah...blah...blah... No, "Hey big stuff!" for you.

You know what they're gonna say to me once you're born and I put a dress on? "Hey fatty! Still haven't lost that "baby" weight huh?" Then they're gonna snicker.

Then they're gonna offer me a Snickers.

And I'm gonna eat it.

BECAUSE WHY FUCKING BOTHER WITH MY FAT ASS!!

All the haters say, "Oh, let her be. She'll come when she's ready." Fuck that. When you're payin' some bills around here then you can decide when you're born. Till then-- wrap it up Baby. Get your last few laps in--the pool's closin' down for the season.

I get that I'm supposed to be all maternal and patient while you finish doing whatever the hell you call yourself doing in there. But while you're in there "developing" I'm out here. Sitting around like a beached whale. (Literally. I went swimming the other day and your dad walked by and said, "Look there's a whale in the pool!" Brilliant)

I'm waddling around on my swollen ass Fred Flinstone feet. Grunting when I do ANYTHING. And hearing stuff like, "Oooh, you're about to pop!" or "Your water broke. Made ya look!" to which I reply, "Kiss my newly dimpled ass." If Mommy has to curse out one more stranger for rubbing her belly and gleefully laughing that she's "blessed" and "creating a miracle" then she's pretty sure her car is gonna get keyed after she whoops some blessed ass. And we both know you aren't gonna be the one to pay for a new paint job. Not bein' any kinda way but the word "deadbeat" springs to mind.

But fine, have it your way, moocher. Take your sweet infant time. "Develop". Rest up. Cause once you get around to making an appearance (I can only imagine how busy you are in there -- eye roll) I expect a few things (besides your first installment payment of course).

You better be equipped with some hardcore adorableness. I'm talkin' dimples, tiny hands and feet. Those cute fucking little toes. I want the whole shebang. The gurgling, the giggling, the poor attempts at the ridiculously simple "bye bye" wave. (How does your kind NOT get that from jump? Totally easy. I've been doing it for years).

So put on your tap shoes girly. Cause soon as that doc smacks your rump I expect you to get to dancing.

Oh and just in case you're wondering. I'm totally not speaking to you anymore. That's right. Silent treatment!

This is war, Baby!

Etcetera, Etcetera,

Mommy