Or, random conclusions from a prego brain.
1. An at-home-husband is like Xanax for the OCD mind and spandex for the pregnant soul.
I have never loved it more then this month that Shawn is a teacher. A teacher with the summers off. A teacher who likes to keep himself busy in order to feel productive. He's like silly puddy in my swollen hands. I mean that in the greatest way possible. He doesn't always do things willingly or with his dimpled smile, but he always does them and his help has meant more to me then every single Oreo I ate these past nine months. From cleaning the bathroom to calling pediatricians to finding two new cars to job searching to dog washing to lawn mowing to nursery decorating to feet rubbing. Shawn has been my savior. I'm not sure he's handled my hormones, mood swings and insecurities with as much grace as the chores, but I'll take it because let's face it, personal hygiene is a daunting task for me let alone trying to do anything else. Therefore I'm grateful for nothing more then a marked check box on my never-ending to-do list.
2. Trying to get men to go to the doctor is like trying to find meaning in a Will Ferrell movie.
It's impossible. It's ridiculous. It's a waste of time. Above all, it's frustrating as HELL. I go to the doctor. I get my eyes checked yearly and my teeth cleaned every six months. I lay in those stirrups and scoot all the way to the end of the table like every other obeying, self-conscious female out there. Why is it so tough to get my husband to do the same, minus the stirrups but with a little coughing? Case in point: his eyes are terrible. Terrible. As in he barely passed his sight test to renew his driver's license. They are constantly red, cause him pain and are starting to give him headaches. All this and he has yet to visit the eye doctor. Why? I want one good reason why not? They might make him wear contacts? They might make him feel better? It's not because they cost money because he's got the Cadillac of insurances right now. Blog followers: Get. On. Him. "Sick balls, Chopper!"
3. Asking a pregnant woman to wait three to five more weeks to give birth is like asking the MN government to agree on a budget.
It will eventually happen. It will try the patience of everyone around. It will be painful but it will be worth it in the end. I'm officially ready to have this baby. Clarification: I'm officially ready to not be pregnant anymore but not sure I'm officially ready to be a parent. My curiosity has heightened about what Cletus looks like, will act like, will sleep like, will behave like. Being a very active fetus only makes me think we're in for a rude awakening. I see sleepless weeks, screaming tantrums, barking dogs and uncontrollable anxiety in my near future. I worry Cletus will come out with three legs, two heads, 18 toes and teeth. I worry something will be seriously wrong with Cletus' health. I worry something will go seriously wrong during the delivery. What can I say, I'm an expect-the-worst-but-hope-for-the-best kinda gal. I'm near the end therefore I worry. I realize all this is beyond my control and Team DeBoer will adapt to whatever happens, but it's the waiting and not knowing and anticipation that's slaying me these days. Above all, I'm fascinated at the fact that Shawn and I have created something and that something could enter the world any day now. May I have the patience to endure the challenge, may Shawn keep his humor at 3:47am, may the dogs warm Cletus to the pack with open paws and a good lick and above all, may Cletus be healthy, happy and under eight pounds.