Look out. I thought we'd get a little crazy and do both "Not Me!" and "Not My Child!" this week.Hang on to your hats, kids.
Except, I'm now 40 weeks pregnant and ridiculously tired, so you're going to have to accept the
shortened and sweetened version.
shortened and sweetened version.
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This week, it wasn't me who...
...kept my loving mother held hostage by my two small, grumpy children in a giant baby store, forcing her to entertain them for over two hours while Kyler and I deliberated ad nauseum over two double jogging strollers, during the boys' nap time.
...took advantage of the fact that I am very pregnant and already visit the bathroom often to escape there even more frequently, just so I could have ten blessed minutes of peace and quiet.
...got overly irritated and hormonal when my husband was late picking me up to take me to another pre-natal appointment. I especially didn't think it was a supremely magnificent idea that I drive myself the hour to the doctor's office instead of waiting for him to arrive.
...let my mom get the boys up and breakfasted every day this past week, just for an extra 30 minutes of sleep. Oh wait. Yes I did. I may as well go ahead and own that one.
Additionally, it certainly wasn't me who...
...has gotten increasingly frustrated with so many well-meaning and sweet people who are continuously making suggestions for how to "get things moving" with this pregnancy. Nope. Not a shred of irritation on my part. This pregnant lady stays calm as a cucumber.
And finally, I left the OB's office this week thinking it couldn't possibly be me whose body is, in fact, regressing away from labor. That's right. I am 40 weeks pregnant and ready to welcome this baby at any moment now, so it couldn't have been me who heard my doctor say I was actually only 1cm dilated, when just one week prior, I was 2cm dilated. Ugh.
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My oldest child has been successfully potty trained for about a month now. He isn't even having accidents at night or nap time. (Okay, maybe one a week. And I guess that doesn't really make him potty trained. Anyway.) So really, it must be someone else's child who has had no fewer than two accidents per day this week, leaving his, er....mark on nearly every bath mat, carpet runner, and tiled (okay, linoleum-ed) area in the house. Ugh again.
And it certainly wasn't this same child who, in the middle of a restaurant bathroom, exuberantly proclaimed to the world, "Mooooommmyyyyyy, now I need to wash my haaaaaannnndds! Because I touched my peeeeeenis! And it had peeeeeee-peeeeee on it!!!" And judging by the smirks we received upon exiting the restroom, I'm quite sure not a soul heard this announcement.
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