6

Why do so many people keep saying that I'm going to have this baby before Tuesday? Perhaps it's wishful thinking on their parts -- no one wants to deal with the gargantuan bitchy pregnant woman anymore.

I had my pre-op appointment with Dr. W. today. It might be the last time I drive up to his office pregnant, and I cried joyful tears as I parked the car.

This was an especially momentous occasion because I have driven up to his office about 1,500 times in the last two years, almost always pregnant. So many times I have pulled up into that little parking lot and said a prayer or a reassurance or "what the HELL?" to myself before opening the car door and trudging upstairs to his office.

So many times I had discovered blood in my underpants or on toilet paper at home, and his staff were always ready, once I'd arrived at the office, to escort me quickly to the exam room and set up the ultrasound machine. Only one time was I diagnosed with an actual miscarriage, and I'm scheduled to give birth to that "miscarriage" in six short days, so I have come to believe that Dr. W.'s office is somehow charmed.



In other news, Gigi and Chebbles have reached all new heights of playing together and enjoying each other. I can leave them alone together and they will inevitably end up laughing about something -- usually something naughty -- until I come and break up the party.

I wonder if they've developed a solidarity due to my short temper. Each morning, it seems like I wake up with a finite amount of patience, and if that gets used up before bedtime, watch out. Hub-D gently suggested to me this morning that Gigi's crying was accelerating because I was reacting so negatively to it.

"What NOW? JESUS, Gigi! What in the HELL!???" -- apparently these are not the most effective ways to calm a frightened, injured, and/or generally pissed off baby. He posited a theory that if I were to react to her cries with calm reassurance, I might experience a more favorable result in my relationship with her.

Yeah, whatever. SHE STARTED IT!

When do I get my Vicodin?

Oh oh, and in other news, I just finished hosing off the entire play structure, which Gigi had managed to cover in feces.

I had just bathed her and Chebbles (a feat unto itself for a woman with 50 pounds of pregnancy preventing her from bending down), and I got the sleeves of her PJ's on, and her diaper, when she darted out the back door for a few more minutes of emergency playtime.

Faster than a vampire in the "Twilight" series, she ripped off her diaper, skedaddled to the top of ladder, entered the clubhouse and crapped all over it. From the top of the slide to the far corners: poop-mania. Too amused to be angry, I re-bathed The Jeege and tucked her into bed. Then I snuggled down with The Chebs and got her off to sleep.

After both girls were snoozing, I attacked the play structure with the hose, squirting at the poop mercilessly, much to the chagrin of the dozens of flies which had taken up residence on the Gigi-Poop-Buffet.

Thank goodness I'm not hosting playgroup tomorrow, as originally planned. AND thank goodness we're allowed to water our lawns on Thursday mornings in my neighborhood (water conservation measures), otherwise I'd have a hard time explaining the sudden population of flies so interested in the grass beneath the play structure.

At least it won't cost me $50 to have the carpet guy come back.

Finally, a special treat for all you music lovers out there. Chebbles and Gigi put on a performance for their grandfather this weekend, and Hub-D captured this little video. Six days to go! Really!