Mean Mom. Alternately titled: I’m 37 weeks pregnant.

Done. I’m done. being pregnant.

Not actually done. She’s still in there incubating, but let me tell you something: being 37 1/2  weeks pregnant with your 6th baby is no walk in the park. Let’s start with the visual:

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I would have posted the picture I sent to my close pals, but it’s inappropriate considering I’m in my underwear and can barely hide what’s happening on top. It’s bad. Real, real bad.

But aside from looking like I’m 74 weeks pregnant with triplets, I’m absolutely exhausted. By bedtime, I have no energy and even sometimes hope I don’t go into labor because I just want to sleep. But then I slap myself because, duh, I wanna go into labor. And during the day? It’s hard to let poor choices slide. I think maybe Alice has decided that since my threats are 90% empty and I’m not going to chase her down and actually make her sit in time out, she’s pretty safe to make lots of poor choices. And instead of picking my battles and choosing which of those to address like a real-life nice and smart parent….I get cranky and usually yell. And then Alice usually mean mugs me and runs to another room.

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I’m really good at this parenting thing.

So basically, our days are like this:

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Yeah, that’s Maria doing school work. Trying to, at least. And me just watching.

Most days, though, she powers through and works really hard. I’m so glad she’s the only one I’m homeschooling.

thesedays-66Ollie runs around, usually with a sippy cup in hand, splashing milk willy-nilly, doing whatever she wants. Luckily, it’s usually playing with her kitchen.

thesedays-23 thesedays-42 thesedays-50 thesedays-62But sometimes it’s screaming at me to take her shoes off and put them back on approximately 37 times a day.

thesedays-82I go into nesting mode which involves making cookies and decorating them per Alison’s Cookie Party instructions. They are for our friends and visitors after Franci is born. Because cookie favors is kind of a tradition in our family.

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There’s a chance I couldn’t find an “F” cookie cutter and I had to hand cut every single letter. And perhaps I was running late to take the kids to school (because, really, cookie decorating takes first place) so the outlining is must less than perfect. But is there any chance in hell I’m going to make another batch of both cookies and frosting? Nope. Not one chance in hell. You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

Have I mentioned that as the days and weeks pass, I get more and more obsessed with what she’s going to wear in the hospital? As if it matters at all? Here’s a good example. Freshly Picked released a new size of moccasins. Size 0. Meaning the tiniest size shoe on earth. She released them at 10:00am a couple weeks ago and I got on to order a pair at 11:30. Gone. Every color. I was even going to give in a little bit and go with the white color if I had to. But I didn’t even get the chance to do that. I was a lot more upset than any person should be over an online purchase.

But she re-released sizes and colors and this mama snagged a pair.

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A newborn baby simply cannot spend a day and 1/2 in the hospital without a cute pair of moccs to wear home.

You guys, what the H is wrong with me?

So, I mean, there’s that.

And even though I’ve been cranky to the kids and probably Dan, too (psh), they all take it like troopers. Really, I’ve got the best little pack of kittens here.

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Which is wonderful because it might still be a couple weeks until the tiniest makes her appearance. I was checked on Monday. My doctor might have the skinniest fingers I’ve ever seen aside from Haley (freakishly small hands there) and she said I was a fingertip dilated. Do you guys know what that means? It means she didn’t want to handle a crying pregnant mother in her exam room and it’s always safe to say a fingertip.

Basically, I’m nothing.

Send me labor vibes asap.

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