A Very Bad Day

Tomorrow is my due date, and seeing as approximately 95% of babies are not born on their due date, I do not expect mine to be. Which means the baby will be late, which is not only normal, but is also, really, fine. Who am I to complain; being home and waiting for the arrival of my firstborn is not a bad problem to have. Except that, right now, I'm feeling more than a little whiny about the whole situation. I've burst into tears approximately 3 times today. Once during Grey's Anatomy, when Meredith had her little paper-bag breathing incident in the closet with McDreamy. The second time during A Baby Story, which for the last few months I have been boycotting, because all it does it make me nervous. However, the plug got me: "A woman is a week late and labor is induced." I was like, Oh, maybe that will make me feel better. It didn't, and the labor part made me nervous, and the baby being born made me cry in that weepy, cliched way overly-hormonal women do. Like last week when I was watching the S&tC ep where Miranda has Brady, I was a damn wreck. Cynical Miranda, looking at her baby for the first time and being affected--gah! (On a side note, Ashley, if my water does end up breaking, I will try really really hard not to ruin anyone's shoes, much less someone's Manolos, heehee. That was so ick.)


The third time I turned on the waterworks was after my dress-up pink flamingo flung itself off the shelf and smashed. An overtly tacky, revenge-type Christmas present from my brother, the flamingo has been in my possession about 2 years now. It has outfits for every holiday, some of them more than hideous, but in the end, it is MY tacky flamingo, and I love it. I made a 2005 calendar inspired by the flamingo, for pete's sake. Scott threw a toy for Bender, and Bender careened into the shelf, and the flamingo flew its first and only (dreadfully unsucessful) flight. I just saw the head, the body, and the bodiless outfit lying sadly in the hallway, and had to leave. Dogs break things, husbands break things, kids break things, and hell if I don't break something every other day. A person can't get too attached. And I'm really not mad. Scott's trying to fix it with two kinds of glue; there's just a few pieces left.

But it was everything else surrounding the flamingo. I'm at the point where all movies suck, there truly is nothing on TV, despite having the help of the DVR, I don't want to read--I don't even want to read Harry Potter, which is a Very Bad Sign. The yarn I bought to learn crocheting with, despite being soft, multi-colored, and very cool, is too crinkly to do anything with. I honestly don't feel like emailing very much, even, because what is there to say other than, nope, still no baby, and yup, going more than a little crazy. I certainly do not want to talk on the phone. I can't write thank-you cards yet for baby gifts, because I had a plan for that, and the plan hinges on the baby actually BEING here. I don't even want to go to Target (another grave sign). And I don't want to sit in the same spot on the living room couch, because the perspective is getting old.

So, after the flamingo incident, I sat down in the chair by the window and discovered that Bill Lumbergh is about to die. He's been fine the entire time I've owned him (yeah, all of two and a half months, but still). He was fine this weekend. His water needed to be cleaned, and I did that today, seemingly without incident, and fed him a little. And now he's either tweaking out and shooting all over the office tank, or he's laying on his side for several long moments at a time. After seeing how many aquatic creatures die over the past few months, I know the signs. I'm no idiot--Bill is going to die. He is. I'm going to have to flush him, and this baby's still not going to come out, and what if I'm as bad a People Mom as I am a Fish Mom. And then my flamingo is forever going to have a hole in his chest. And nothing good will ever be on TV again. And I still can't stop eating cookies.

Wah.