Someday

I know I have been bitching about having a cold for approximately 870 years. This week, while still fucking contracting every five minutes, it developed into something that is still trying to kill me. Sore throat, cough, headache, and a nose that alternates between being plugged like cement and running like a faucet. . . I have been just thrilled with this. Poor J has been beside himself trying to figure out what to do with me. If I lie down, my contractions slow to one every fifteen minutes. But the second I do much of anything they start up again. If I wasn't dying of some sort of bubonic plague than we would be beginning eviction procedures right now. I am likely to feel better right after delivery. Problem is that I am so tired I can barely move so walking around is difficult--labor just seems impossible.

I have been giving a pep talk to my girl parts--something alone the lines of "I GET IT. I AM TERRIBLE AT THIS. SHE'LL BE AN ONLY CHILD PLEASE STOP KILLING ME!" Something light and not hysterical at all.

I went to my regular doctor (not that I have ever seen her before since J and I seem to be the kiss of death for family doctors at our practice) and she prescribed anti-biotics. Not before trying to guilt me about being allergic to penicillin which apparently makes finding something else like analyzing an actuarial table in difficulty level. I didn't like her.

She offered to be the baby's doctor and while I am sure she is plenty confident since she didn't notice I was pregnant (despite the notes all over my chart and the GIANT belly) I don't have a ton of confidence in her.

Meanwhile I'll just be lying here in my bed, drinking water and watching too much shitty tv. Someday I'll have a baby. MAYBE.