Any woman who claims to enjoy sitting around eating bon bon’s is a big fat liar (cause we know those babies aren’t low cal).

I’ve got to tell you, this inability to move around and nest is maternal torture. I sit on my couch and see a hundred projects that can and should be done before I birth this child, then sip on my diet coke and shake with the over abundance of stifled energy. I’m not tired, I’m irritated. I get up and try to do something, but it seems like I can’t get any further than wiping off the counters before the pain lands me right back on my rather overcushioned tail bone.

And that’s another thing. Yes, I have completely lost the weight battle with this pregnancy. It’s not that I’m a pig, it’s that I burn absolutely no calories during the day, but still manage to need five (seven) meals. At this point it looks like I’ll be birthing a 42 pound fetus.

Jason flies home in exactly two weeks, and I’m determined to wait for him. Besides, I just found out my doctor will be out of town until my delivery date as well, go figure. I got a blessing from Jason before he left that told me this child would come at the perfect time. Since we know the Lord has a sense of humor, I’m really hoping the “perfect time” doesn’t include me and an EMT, plus three screaming, emotionally scarred children.

Okay, must get out of this chair and go save a few calories and some serious pain by reclining in my new La-Z-Boy recliner (a story that I would love to tell, but which my husband just might refuse to come home over, should I make it public).

This is my husband’s most current form of emotional torture.

Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nr7DcJdbCS0

Here’s this week’s column, it was too good to keep to myself.

“The other day I went with my mother and sister into a furniture warehouse. It was one of those nice big show rooms where you can plop down just about anywhere and take a nap. Just my kind of place.

Upon entering, we were immediately pounced upon by a relatively young salesman.

“Whoa!” he says, looking me up and down. “Your water’s like, not going to break right here or anything, is it?”

Now, there are a few basic rules when it comes to dealing with overly pregnant women. Rule number one, try not to make them feel any more pregnant than they already are.

He was young and obviously uneducated in the pregnant sense, so I smiled and gently assured him that no, Niagra wasn’t sheduled to make an appearance at this particular time.

The girls and I pushed through his encroaching presence and started looking at a cozy sectional.

“Here,” my sister says, “Sit down. Tell me this isn’t comfortable.” I relaxed into the couch and considered staying there until Christmas, when she was up and off to another. “Come try this one!”

I heaved myself to the edge and made a rather unladylike exit of the cushions. Just as I gained my feet, I heard a snort and a laugh behind me.

Excuse me? Laughter? Right, because obviously people who have a hard time getting off couches are so fun to watch.

Rule number two with pregnant women, do not laugh at their clownlike awkwardness. Yes, it’s funny to see someone rock back and forth in order to dig up enough momentum to propel themselves to their feet, but for crying out loud, keep it to yourself.

No matter how hard we tried, we could not shake this kid. He watched me with a look on his face that clearly said, “I’ve never seen one this close up before!” When I cringed at a particularly powerful jab from the baby, he was instantly curious.

“Did it just kick you?” he asked with a sort of delighted horror. I was obviously an anomaly in his world and open to any poking and prodding. I kept my distance, hoping he wouldn’t get brave and ask to pat my head and rub my belly.

As we neared the back of the store, I accidentally dropped my keys. Let’s face it, the floor might as well have been the Grand Canyon, there was no way these fingers could retrieve something that far away without outside assistance. I looked forlornly at my sister.

“Um, I dropped them…” I said, knowing he was watching this interaction with the utmost interest. She quickly came to my rescue. Having survived four pregnancies of her own, she knows all about third trimester handi-caps–shoe laces, toenail polish, hundred dollar bills lying at your feet.

“Man,” the kid pipes up, “That’s got to be tough.” For once, I thought, he shows a little sympathy.

“Yeah,” he continues, “I know how that feels cause I used to be fat too.”

And there you have it. The one thing you are never allowed to say to a prenant woman, stated with nothing short of honest ignorance.

Three and a half weeks and counting. I’m ready for my epidural.”

So Rex comes in yesterday as I’m applying eye liner. He’s five, but he’s a very young five. He’s the kind of five that’s way too busy trying to be anything but a big kid to atually act five.

“Mommy?” he says, Junie hot on his heels with a big smile on her face, “We’re going to make a tooth-pulling machine so we can pull out one of Junie’s teeth!” She noddded enthusiastically.

Now, it was early, and I was still in that “I can hear you but I’m totally not listening” mode. What I saw were two smiling children who weren’t asking for food, drink, or Nick Jr. What a nice morning.

“Oh!” I said, nodding approvingly like your typical auto-pilot parent. I leaned in to smudge when–

WHAT DID HE JUST SAY? I caught them just as they were making their exit.

“Um, I mean, no you’re not!”

They turned around, only slightly daunted, and Rex happily burst her bubble (this confirmed the feeling I had that it was her idea). “Sorry June, Mommy says no!”

And that was it, they were on to something new.

This is just a daily reminder as to why we should actually listen when our kids speak. Amazing the things we might hear.

I have approximately four minutes to write before my kidney shuts down and I’m back on the couch.

I have learned some really hard things lately. First, I could really use a pedicure because half an inch of polish grow out is just not cool.

Second, driving is overrated. I now prefer being chauffered around in a severely reclined position, watching other people run my errands.

Third, accepting service sucks.

It’s funny, because I’ve always been the sister or friend who has no problem jumping in and making someone sit down so I could do their dishes/watch their kid/fold a load of clothes. Hey, if you’re in bad shape and I’m available, relax. I’m happy to do it.

But now that it’s me who’s the loser (because that’s suddenly how I feel all the time), I find that this entire experience is humbling and shameful, even though I know I’m not supposed to feel that way about it.

There’s something about knowing that I can’t do for myself that takes all the fun out of living. I watch my mom and family as they feed, clothe and discipline my kids while I lay on the couch, and I feel like a useless waste of space.

I know all the answers. I know that this will all be over very shortly. I know that I’ve been given this experience to learn from, and Ican tell you right now, I’ll never see service in the same light again. I’ve had more painful epiphanies throughout this ordeal than I ever thought possible, and I wouldn’t trade a single one of them.

There is no doubt that it is hard to accept service on a long-term basis. I’m leaving for home next week, and my husband and his family have set up an elaborate system of people to step in and handle my job. Just thinking about it makes me cry, and I can’t decide if they’re tears of gratitude or tears of shame.

I’m so lucky to be surrounded by loved ones who can, and do, and will care for me, but at the end of the day, this is very,very hard.

Here’s this week’s column, take two.

“I love taking Mr. Man to my doctor appointments. Not because it’s nice to have the good doc validate all my aches and pains, or because it’s great to have someone tell him that my current insanity stems from the baby gaining half a pound a week, but because at the Dr’s office, my husband thinks I’m sexy.

I know, eight months pregnant and sexy do not normally go together, but my husband is a good think-outside-the-boxer.

So we’re sitting there last week at my appointment going through the routine testing required at each visit: yellow sample, weight check, blood pressure. We all know that there’s a delicate balance to this process, and it starts first thing in the morning.

On appointment days, I’m always careful to wear the smallest amount of light-weight clothing available (which might consist of a swimsuit sarong, or possibly just a swimsuit), I eat a sensible breakfast of cheese puffs, and drink nothing until 30 minutes before the actual appointment. That’s when I gulp down six ounces of light-weight liquid to offer it up to the sample gods, with hopes that it will take a few leftover calories with it.

After arriving at the clinic, I usually drag Mr. I’ve Never Been Pregnant back to the testing area, drop him off, and make my way to the restroom. You might think a pregnant woman can urinate on command, but there’s nothing worse than pressure from that little plastic cup.

Then comes the long walk to the Scales of Torture and Insanity. Personally, I think it’s nothing short of animal cruelty to force a pregnant woman onto a scale once a month. I’d rather undergo cosmetic testing any day. Paint me like a petunia, but leave my weight out of it.

The weigh-in is a two part deal. First, you have to explain to the nurse exactly why your seven pound weight gain is strictly tied to the Chinese food you ate for dinner the night before, and explain that it has nothing to do with your multiple chins or expanding waistline.

Then comes the tricky part. Every pregnant woman knows there’s only one way to step on a scale–backwards. That’s right, if you’re smart, you throw that puppy in reverse and never actually confront the number. Hey, if you don’t see it, it doesn’t count.

But here’s the best part about the entire visit: they always check my blood pressure. In my case, despite the yelling and the high level of stress that comes with raising three small children from the comfort of my couch, I have rocking good blood pressure. It is the one and only reason I invite my husband to these visits: he thinks my blood pressure is sexy.

“Dang, girl,” he says last week, “You have awesome blood pressure!” He then proceeded to wink at me and wriggle his eyebrows like I’d just flashed him a little thigh instead of 116/80. “Wanna go out Friday?”

I’ll tell you, my ankles might be enormous, and I might need help getting off the couch, but as far as my blood pressure is concerned, I’m Pamela Anderson in his book. Man, just imagine how he’s going to react to my low-cholesterol score…

I’m curious, what’s your favorite way to clean up car puke?

I considered a fire hose, but it might take the finish off the outside. Torching the thing would be ideal, but we kind of need some mode of transportation so I figured I’d better not.

So today I went to pick up the babysitter so I could run to Wal Mart and buy pull-ups with my mom (not that it takes two people to buy a pack of pull-ups, but I’ve got some major cabin fever right now and will take any low maintenance field trip I can get).

The directions to the sitter were a little foggy, and I ended up spending fifteen minutes on a very stretch of curvy road, with June in the backseat. I kept turning around and retracing my steps, trying to find an address that didn’t exist, and my driving got more eratic and more frustrated.

Unfortunately, so did June’s stomach.

Let’s just say there’s nothing more earth shattering than the awful sound of breakfast, reintroducing itself all over the backseat. It just. Kept. Coming.

We cancelled the sitter and I spent the better part of the morning, with my mother’s help, disinfecting my backseat. June felt great, once she’d gotten it out of her system and found her way to a straighter road.

Personally, I decided that her outfit wasn’t really that cute, so instead of tediously scrubbing the bananas out of it, I guiltlessly tossed it in the trash, along with her top, my floor mats, the backseat, and my sanity. (Okay, so maybe I kept the floor mats and the car, but it was tempting.)

Let me tell you, there’s nothing like a little vinegar water to take the smell out of something. I scrubbed that car seat down, disinfected it, then power washed the whole thing and left it out to dry.

Too bad I couldn’t power wash June.

Okay, since I can’t do anything worthwhile, I spend most of my time either reading or watching The Real Housewives (a very uplifting show that inspires friendship and catfights).

I find that with my current pain, if a book isn’t really good, I can’t pay attention to it. It has to be strong enough writing to overcome and distract me from my broken self.

Unfortunately, there are few vampire books that fulfill that category, and I’ve already read them all.

But in the past few years, my sweet mama has developed a hankering for murder mysteries. She first fell in love with the Amelia Peabody series by Elizabeth Peters (fantastic), and has found a few others.

Her current read is amazing. The writing is so good, it almost feels like literature (don’t quote me on that). It’s the recently renovated and totally updated Sherlock Holmes series, the “after the facts” series about Sherlock as an old man and his new partner, Mary Russell, a girl 40 years his junior.

Love. It.

I just finished the first book and am panting after the second (my mom has 29 pages left–it’s the second time she’s read the series and she can’t remember how it ends).

So if you’re looking for something that’s squeaky clean and totally transfixing (and doesn’t involve blood letting, biting, or anything supernatural), try the first book, The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, by Laurie R. King.

You won’t be disapointed. (Unless you hate mysteries or reading in general. In that case, go for Real Housewives. I have the feeling they can’t read period.)

I realized last week that I’m currently training my children to respond to the number system. I find that any system that can get them to automatically regurgitate a polite response is surprisingly refreshing.

For instance, when I yell, “One word!” they automatically say, “Please.” Two Words is my personal favorite because there’s no substitute for “Yes Mom.”

While they like to think three words is “He did it!” it’s not. I prefer “You’re the boss.” (June usually refuses this one and regularly resonds with, “No, I’m the boss!”)

Four words is another favorite, “I’d be glad to.” This is an appropriately nice thing for kids to say any time you ask them to do anything they really don’t want to do.

Harrison has been using five words a lot lately. In fact, now that I can’t chase him he’s started doing the most unacceptable thing. Any time I ask him to do anything or say anything he doesn’t want to hear, he simply walks away from me.

Walks away? Is he really that stupid to think I’d let him get away with that for long? So yesterday I was visiting with my sister Jen and he did it to me. So I sicked her on him.

Let me tell you, there’s nothing more satisfying than listening to your sister come down on your child like some kind of avenging angel, chewing him up one side and down the other on behalf of his poor pregnant mama who can’t chase him.

And so, he walked back in, completely humbled, and all I had to do was say, “Five words.”

“I’m sorry I was rude,” he said.

Best five words, ever.

Right when you think you’ve made it through the trials of being the youngest child, you end up having the youngest grandchild. And it begins. Again.

Being the youngest in the family has it’s advantages. You see just about everything life and child rearing have in store for you, so when it’s your turn, nothing comes as much of a surprise.

But an amazing thing happens to people when they’re done having two-year-old’s. They forget that they ever had a two-year-old.

Handling a willful kid between the ages of 24 and  48 months is sticky business. There are so many things that can, and do, go wrong at any given moment, it becomes a game of survival.

And those of you in my shoes know that survival means picking your battles. For instance, you can make your two-year-old ride in the cart at the grocery store, but you can’t force them to be happy about it.

Someone without a two-year-old would look at the situation and see a kid throwing a fit, their parent ignoring it, and tsk tsk at the mother for not controling her child. But sadly, they would invitably miss the most important point: the kid is throwing a fit from the cart. Contained.

In my world, a kid like June who’s locked and loaded and not touching anything in the store is nothing short of victory. Yeah, she’s going to cry about it, but tears or no tears, I win on the most important level, and I’m smart enough to know that you can’t force a two-year-old to do all their growing up at once.

I should take a moment to empathize with those of you who have children at the front end of the family train. Raising the first grandkids is like bringing an alien to Thanksgiving dinner. Everything they do is foreign and either cute or unacceptable. No one can understand why your toddler is always acting so childish.

Until the majority of the family has been plunged into parenthood, everything your kid does, and your subsequent reactions, are under routine scrutiny.

No matter which end you’re at, there’s nothing better for parents than cousins of a similar age.