Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Dr. H

I think I hate my doctor. No. Scratch that. I know I hate my doctor. Yeah. Hate him bad. Needless to say, I had an appointment today. I went in hoping he would congratulate me on a pregnancy well-done, and end the misery that is pregnancy. He did quite the opposite actually. He took my blood pressure, felt the baby's head, measured my massive belly, and told me he would see me in a week.

"But doctor, I could be in full-blown labor and ready to deliver and stuff. Shouldn't you check more stuff out? I could be dilated to a 10 or something. Shouldn't we know?"
His response: "Have you had any contractions?"
Me: "Not really..."
Him: "Then you're not in labor. See you next week."

As I sat there, shaking with the absolute injustice of the whole thing, fury started to consume me. It became hard to breath, blindness overtook me, and the only coherent thought I had was how to destroy this abnormally tall man. I couldn't believe it. He wouldn't even check things out! And who was he? This man had never been pregnant! It's a power trip I tell you. Seriously. It's like playing god, telling people when they can or cannot have a baby. Sick and wrong. Twisted, really. I loathe him. And the only way I could think of to pay him back, besides giving him an absolute look of death, was to not see him in a week and to make it a little longer. That's right. I took some of the power back. This quack isn't going to tell me when to schedule.

And who let men go into this field anyway? They know absolutely nothing concerning the matter. There's really only so much you can learn from a book, the rest is based on personal experience. Never mind that my dad is a heart doctor and never has had a heart attack himself, completely different scenario. The bottom line is that this man is a horrible individual. As I was driving home, I kept trying to think of ways of how to get back at him. I thought about changing doctors last minute. I thought about stalking him and leaving hate notes on his windshield. I even went so far to think about somehow kidnapping his kids and holding them for ransom until he induced me. I haven't really come up with a solid game plan quite yet, but I'm pretty sure I'll know it when I hear it. Oooh, I hate him. And feel free to send me some ideas on ways to absolutely ruin his life. So long as I'm pregnant, the man should suffer.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Almost 37 weeks...

Muahaha! Now you have to have that frightening image ingrained into your memory. I suffer, you suffer. That's the way I operate. Most people have the decency to show their nasty prego bellies covered. Not I. I want you to feel the pain, the discomfort, and the sheer horror of seeing the truly grotesque, because really, pregnant bellies are disgusting. And yes, my belly button is sticking out and no, I do not cover it up with a bandaid or tape. I just don't really care that a protruding button makes you uncomfortable.

I'll tell you what, though. There has never been a time in my life when more people have wanted to discuss my weight and size. Someone asked me the other day if I was having twins. Another woman expressed to me that I should be careful. I'm getting too big and I still have a long way to go. I wanted to point out that it might feel like a lot longer to her after I rip her apart limb from limb, but I let it slide; I'll wait until after the baby is born and people are still asking me when I'm due to fully erupt. Another keen observer pointed out the other day, "Wow. You're really out there! I think I only gained 15 lbs in my pregnancy." Uh huh. Thanks lady. I'll be sure to leave that in my suicide note.

But I was thinking about how once you're pregnant, it's a like some kind of free for all to say whatever you want. I've gotten a lot of "You sure are getting big! I saw you just 4 weeks ago and you weren't nearly this big!" or "You sure do look uncomfortable. And it's only going to get worse." What I want to mention is that I don't look uncomfortable because I'm pregnant; I look uncomfortable because you're standing too close and I'm thinking how best to strangle you. I don't even know these people. At least my mom has the decency to try and cover up her weight inspection with some non-subtle remark about finding a new fat free candy or remarking how fun running can be. Seriously people. I don't point out your weight, no need to point out mine.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

My Esophagus

I am currently listening to my neighbors' two little girls crying. It's nine o'clock in the morning and they are sitting in their pool, but are wanting their dad to turn the heat on. He has refused, and they have turned to moaning out, "Your own daughters..." or "Do you want us to turn into icicles?!" Keep in mind they are 4 and 7 and they are quite serious. Josh and I have found ourselves laughing hysterically at the constant stream of whine, since they are both in tears and have not yet considered just getting out of the pool to avoid how "freezing" it is. I'm pretty sure it isn't below 80 degrees.

In other important occurrences, Josh had waffles this morning and asked me if I also have a dry esophagus in the mornings, making it hard to swallow bready foods. I'm turning the question to you, since I only laughed in his face. But no, I do not have a dry esophagus in the morning or at any other time of the day. I suppose my body supplies enough esophagus juice to keep it properly moisturized.

I would also like to add that I saw pictures from my baby shower in Utah and I'm pretty disappointed in anyone and everyone who failed to mention to me that I resemble a water buffalo in a purple shirt. That hurts, people. I thought you were my friends and family, and true friends would always tell a person that he or she looks like a bloated buffalo. Either way, I guess it doesn't matter since I have one more month of looking bloated and buffalo-like, and then I can start starving myself to prepare for my brother's wedding. My goal is to look only three times the size of his wife.