"You Can't Be Mad at a Pregnant Lady!"

I didn't say that.

See, in my heart I want that beautiful sentiment to be true, but it bears repeating that I am a TOTAL MONSTER these days. It would be fair and okay to be mad at this particular pregnant lady, really.

For instance:

Last week when G called me, repeatedly, because she was understandably worried that she hadn't heard anything after the ultrasound, I answered her fourth or fifth call by asking why she wanted me to kill her.

Is that nice?

Then, I told her it was a healthy (so far, knock wood,) boy and hung up on her. I hung UP ON HER.

Is that nice?

We don't even need to discuss how wretched I was to T on Monday while we cleaned and rearranged the upstairs bedroom. There was swearing, there was pouting, there were vague threats pertaining to the vacuum and where the sun don't shine.

Now, I'm not proud of any of this, and I don't want to resort to rationalizing any bad behavior on my part by throwing up my hands and shouting twinkie defense, but really- there is some diminished mental capacity going on here.

So the person who coined today's title has my undying love and affection. She already knew that, though. She also has my infinite admiration. She also might be lying in this particular instance.

In other news, yes the baby is perfect looking so far, and he is a he. "Sleeping Beauty" is off the table, replaced by "Cranky." Negotiations continue.

During the ultrasound, the tech noted that our boy is sporting some seriously long legs. Then she showed us his feet, which seemed HUGE to me. She said, "well, you don't want him to fall over on those long legs of his, do you?"

We laughed, and then I freaked out about the fact that this child has to COME OUT OF MY WOMB, and holy shit, how is that going to happen, again?

Then, I punched her.

Is that nice?