Desperate Times.

I have taken it upon myself to expand my horizons in the "invention" field.

And by that I mean, of course, that I will do anything and everything to make things stop HURTING.

Because apparently the minute the third trimester hits, you automatically have to become miserable. I know my baby girl is growing and I'm all sorts of excited about that, but the terror that comes with the growing - not so much.

It feels like my ribs are being ripped apart from the inside.

Which my husband informed me last night basically are.

So, instead of sitting at my desk in agony all day long, I have taken it upon myself to become...er, ingenuitive  in the pain-healing department.

And so, I introduce to you, the latest and greatest in pregnancy inventions: 

the icepack-attached-by-paper-clips-to-your bra healer

[patent pending]

 

I could be wrong, but I think I might have heard my boss make a "secret" call earlier to someone whom he called "doctor" and whispered in a hurried tone to. 

I'm sure it wasn't regarding my sanity. 

He was probably just trying to steal my awesome idea and calling around to prospective investors.

In other news - my sis and nephew are coming down this weekend to visit. We're calling it our "preggo party" weekend.

I made the shopping list:

 Hey, if you can't enjoy junk food frivolously when you're pregnant, when can you?

My husband texted me in the middle of this list-making shindig. Last night I was in so much pain I was yelling at him to find me an ice pack. He, of course, couldn't find one. However, he did decide it was a good time to grab himself a bowl of ice cream [him and I later went over the definition of an idiot]. 

Anyway, I received this text from him this morning.

Take particular note of how quickly our conversations go from good to bad back to relatively normal. 

I'm trying to shield my dear hubby from the disgustingness that is childbirth and all that accompanies it [because there's no sense in both of us suffering]. I am also trying to shield myself from the grossness, slightly, by purchasing all of these "embarrassing" items from Amazon.com. 

The problem is that I have everything shipped to the office [because I'm the only one who's ever there] and having our UPS driver deliver them to my husband's store when I'm not present at the office. And then my husband opening all of my boxes because he assumes they're baby clothes and he wants to show them off to his crew.

This could become catastrophic if and when he opens a box with 2 40-packs of diapers *ahem* sanitary items [birth is so magical]. 

Fortunately, he was too busy to open the box that day, but I kind of wish he hadn't been. 

After all, I have to be the one worrying about all of this shit, why can't he suffer just a teensy bit?