I am t-minus five days until official due date and so freaking restless I looked at both the plunger and some long handled kitchen tongs in a new light this week. I can’t say there is a lot of difference this time, from the first two. I had the same kind and the same length of morning sickness with all three (exactly sixteen weeks). I probably have generally gained about the same amount of weight and look basically the same as I did with the first two.

I’m not sure why I’m so restless. Have definitely had more general pain this time around (back pain, mostly, but also that kind of pain that feels like you’ve fallen on the cross bar of your bike, only from the inside out). But otherwise, this isn’t like the worst pregnancy in the world.

To be fair, the last six weeks of baking Eliott included this dreaded all-over itch, known as PUPPS. I was taking scalding hot showers at 2am, mixing every anti-itch remedy in the entirety of CVS into a paste and coating myself in it, and bathing in oatmeal. For six weeks.

And with Carter my sinuses literally slammed concrete shut with about four weeks to go. They had pulled the homeopathic menthol and eucalyptus Zicam off the market temporarily, so when my bottle finally ran out, I wanted to die for lack of breathing.

So I do feel like this could be worse.

But I was not this restless before. Maybe it is because I was still working.

And, possibly, also due to working, I did not make quite the same number of idiotic pregnant mistakes.

(Certainly, I can’t now be held responsible for anything I may have said to any students during my first two pregnancies, and God knows, whatever I did say I can’t remember at this point anyway. I’m sure there were some questionable comments thrown around from time to time, but looking back, I am confident that they only gained me more respect in the long run.)

I’m hoping the same is true for my most recent moments of pregnancy induced idiocy. Because this has by far been the worst pregnancy for brainlessness.

Example 1: New Changing Table

Wanted a new changing table to match my cherry nursery furniture this time around. I have a changing table. It is light pine. Someone gave it to me. I figured I could do an even trade, sell the one I have for the same price as I could buy another one used.

The going rate on Craigslist is about fifty bucks, so I put mine on sale and started searching.

It seems everyone in the universe has a white or a light pine nursery. No one selling cherry furniture at all.

Then one night I came across one on Ebay. It was disassembled in the picture so I used Google images to see what it would look like when put together, and it was a really nice changing table. Apparently it retails at BabiesRUs for about $200. Shipping was something like fifteen dollars, so I put my max bid in at thirty, truly assuming I would not get it.

I “won” the item for fifteen dollars.

I was so excited I bragged about it for at least three weeks.

The same three weeks it sat upstairs still in the box, waiting for John to put it together.

When he finally got around to assembly, he came downstairs after ten minutes and asked if I had paid with a credit card. This exchange ensued:

It was Ebay, so it was PayPal. Why?

Well, honey, you need to stop the payment if you can. This thing is broken all to hell. And it doesn’t even have all the parts to put it together. Did you check the seller’s ratings? Are they a reputable seller?

I don’t know. I didn’t look. I didn’t even think about it. Crap. Hold on. I’m going to find the original listing. You check the credit card and see if PayPal has charged us yet. I bet they haven’t. It usually takes at least a month.

Mildly freaking out, I grab the computer and find the listing.

This is the first time I notice. In big huge bolded letters across the top of the description reads:


There, just as John found it, are five pictures with photo-shopped red circles detailing exactly where the item is broken. In several places. Further down the description also notes: missing parts for assembly.

I. Am. So. Awesome.

Example #2: Introducing John to my doctor at Gander Mountain

About a month ago we were going out for dinner with John’s parents and stopped at the newly opened Gander Mountain on the way. The place was packed with every single conservative Republican Caucasian who lives in Winston Salem.

Already hungry and starting to get annoyed with the amount of time it was taking John to find and purchase some bullets for a rifle he had as a kid, I found him and told him I was ready to go.

At that minute, from about three short aisles over, my OB (in a baseball hat and street clothes) catches my eye and nods toward me.

“Omigosh, John. That’s my doctor. You have to meet him. You are going to love him,” I say, and immediately pull John towards this man and his son. I’m a good twenty feet away from him when I smile broadly and announce, “Hey! This is my husband!”

John immediately extends his hand as we finally get close enough to touch each other and introduces himself, and then starts talking to the son about guns. It takes me about three seconds, but now that I’m within five feet of this man, I’m suddenly seized with a panic that this is not, in fact, my doctor.

The hat. The street clothes. I’m feeling terribly confused, and also wondering why he didn’t introduce himself back to John using his name. I start to sweat, because at this point, John is talking to the son and we’re both acting very casual, but the air is starting get thick with awkwardness, and I can feel it.

In order to avoid any telling comments (something to do with pregnancy, the big day, or seeing him again really soon), I quickly say to the ten year old, “So you’re the oldest right?” (I know my doc has three kids and I’m pretty sure his oldest is a boy.)

The kid says no.

“Oh, you have an older brother?”

The kid says, “Uh. No. A sister.”

“Oh. So you have a little brother?”

“Nope. Just one sister.”

This should be the point where I become one hundred percent positive this is not my doctor. You probably cannot imagine exactly how this feels, unless you’ve been pregnant. But my brain is, at this moment, experiencing all sorts of fog and confusion. Imagine for a moment, my brain in distinct fragments (we’ll call them channels) each functioning independently of one another, but all at the same time.

One clear channel of thought that has decided that this man is my doctor is still holding very strongly to the fact that it is right.

Yet another brain channel is racing and seeking an immediate out of this conversation.

And, then there’s a channel that is psychotically imagining that my actual doctor is somehow fully aware that all of this is taking place, and getting insulted that I thought I recognized him in public but was wrong.

The rest of my brain, directly questioning channel number one and simultaneously panicking, is logically trying to conjure up an image of my actual doctor, to see how far off we all are.

In short, I’m having a mild mental breakdown.

Physically I’m fully flushed and starting to sweat.

As we walk, briskly, away, I say to John, sort of under my breath, “Okay. This is going to sound really strange, but I actually don’t think that was my doctor.”

“WHAT?! Wait. Wait. What?!”

“Yeah. I thought it was him from a distance, but when we got closer, it didn’t exactly look like him anymore, and now I’m sort of freaking out. I’m pretty sure my doctor has three kids. And a goatee. Did that guy have a goatee?”

Now John is laughing. (I’m almost crying.)

“Let me get this straight. You mean to tell me that the one man, besides me, in all of Winston Salem who is intimate with your lady parts, the guy you’ve been seeing like, every other week for a few months now, and you aren’t sure if that was him or not?! What the hell, Claire?”

“Well. Technically, he’s not yet intimate with my lady parts. When you are pregnant they don’t actually check anything down there. They just listen to the heartbeat and measure your stomach. And he’s always in a hospital jacket (ie: lab coat). And no hat. But I feel pretty confident that he would have been far more friendly and would have said his name and that he was happy to meet you. That guy was being super awkward.”

“Well no shit! He’s standing there going, ‘Who is this pregnant lady and how the hell do I know her?'”

At this point, I whip out my phone and Google my doctor’s name, hitting “Images.”

“Here. This is my doctor. Was that guy him?” I say, thrusting the phone in John’s face.

“No. No that was definitely not him.”

I think the only feature that was even similar was the guy’s height.

It took me at least three hours to stop feeling embarrassed and awkward about all this, even though I’ll probably never see that guy again.

Example #3: Birthday Party for Eliott

Eliott was invited to a birthday party for a girl in her class.

I received an Evite about a month before the event. I do not know this child, nor her parents, nor anyone else in her class for that matter, and the guest list was hidden, so though I RSVP’ed “yes,” I didn’t tell Eliott about it, figuring not everyone was invited.

I went ahead and got the child a gift and put the event and the address on my calendar, noting she doesn’t live far from our house. A bonus.

The week before the party I received an Evite reminder.

“How nice,” I thought. This thing is this Saturday. No problem.

I continued to receive daily reminders about the party in my email for the next six days leading up to Saturday.

I actually became a little insulted by the number of reminder emails and thought, “Geeze lady, chill out with the reminders. We got it.”

Yeah, guess who didn’t make it to the party?

Saturday was spent in sweatpants, watching football and eating leftovers by the hour.

At about 4:30 I finally went upstairs to shower and noticed the wrapped gift in Carter’s room.

The party ended at 4:00.

I. Am. Awesome.

Pregnant Review
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