Ugh.

When the cat's away, the mice will play...boss is out this week. Actually, I've been super busy, super tired, and I'm ridiculously caught up, so blogging it is.

First let me start by saying that I am crazy tired. I can't sleep. My legs hurt. My hips hurt and last night apparently there were "ghostis" in Jack's bed, so that was a fun wake up call. I'm not sure where he's getting the ghost talk from or why he's even thinking about them. This is the second time he's been worried about ghosts. I woke up three more times to go to the bathroom. Probably sixteen more times to adjust the body pillow/heat oven. Such a cruel twist...needing sleep desperately, being completely unable to find comfort, realizing that somehow Mr. Sandman has gotten lost, yet carrying your sweet baby inside your belly and not wanting to feel total frustration. I do feel lucky, that like with Jack, this pregnancy has been amazingly uneventful and easy. I suffer the occasional outburst and I have gotten remarkably more anal (thanks, Dad, G'ma), especially about the way the house looks. What is my deal? But otherwise, I feel the same. Which leads me to believe I could be heading towards boy #2 and maintaining my crown as Queen of the castle on Hillcrest, but I also know that it can mean nothing and that a girl could take over my throne. Which brings me to my next point. I will never, ever, ever, I repeat, never, call my little girl Princess. I seriously hate that! Don't ask - maybe it comes from being a ridiculous tom boy as a child who wore her cousins' hand me down jerseys and basketball t-shirts (and kicked a lot of boys in the junk) and the fact that I was no princess. I looked like a boy. I rode a boy's bike, had a boy haircut, talked like a boy to myself in the mirror, wanted to pee like a boy (and tried on numerous occasions), and probably secretly wanted to be a boy. I'm glad I'm not...but I digress.

As of this very second, I have two months, 17 days, 9 hours, 19 minutes and 31 seconds left until my due date. Of course, I am well aware that I will probably go beyond that, but it's nice to have a goal. I'm not exactly sure why I torture myself with the Baby Due Date counter on my desktop, but I do. I hate the waiting game. I can't even enjoy my pregnancy - I'm looking forward to the baby too much. I'm too busy to enjoy it, except in those quiet moments when the boys are asleep and I can rest my hands on my belly and feel it acrobating around inside. I think those are some of my favorite moments of the day. The worst? When I'm worrying about being huge and the fact that I feel totally unrecognizable as myself. When I worry about stupid things I see on Discovery Health (I'm addicted to the pregnancy shows), and the dreaded stretch marks. I go back and forth with being amazed at my body and it's incredible abilities and the fact that I feel like the ugly duckling and completely out of sorts. My boobs are atrocious. At least I don't have cankles.