Sorry for not posting the last few weeks, my sugar dumplings. I haven’t even been able to brush my teeth...which reminds me, I hafta cancel my dentist appointment. And hair appointment. And breastfeeding class...and baby shower.

I am only posting this for posterity. I haven’t told friends or some family members cuz...there’s no point and I don’t wanna be one of those “woe is me” martyr types. Doesn’t suit me. My smile is too nice for that.

Saturday morning, two weeks ago, my adorable Mom requested we do another driving dry run to my birth hospital so she could reabsorb the lay of the route and land. Considering she’s my getaway baby driver, this is not a request to ignore. If you know my Mom or have a Mom or your own, you’ve witnessed the dangers, frustrations, and worry of Mom driving. It can be a real challenge for all parties involved. Moms often utilize backwards routes, attempts to turn only to be somehow thwarted, routinely drive around the block so as to confirm and reconfirm destination certainty, and most Moms express the need for passenger to not sigh, squirm, make a face, or comment on drivers skill... which makes the entire event high risk.
​So when Mom expresses a need to re-digest, we encourage a patient slow chew.
Furthermore, for the last three ish weeks I’ve had consistently awful rib pain. Front, middle back, throbbing. It’s kept me up at night, annoyed me in the day, and confused me... I’ve iced it, I’ve heated it, I’ve massaged it, and inquired the Googs and my Doc and other preggo ladies for wisdom. No avail.
I was told and figured it was just pregnancy irritation and par for the third trimester course.
Bummer, but manageable.
When Mom mentioned she wanted the dry run, I thought it’d be a good chance to get that checked out...ease my mind a little.

So off we went.
And there I stayed.
Four days later in the antepartum wing, hooked up, drugged, exhausted, stinky and trying to halt preterm labor.
😬

After arriving safely via Mom driving, we waddled up to L&D and we’re met by fresh faced, lovely nurses who basically said they can’t tell me squat without getting officially checked out.
Ok.
Can do.
I was hooked up to baby heartbeat monitor and contraction monitor and, well, monitored.
For a long time.
a really long time.
I was seen by Nurse 1 who, after 6-7 hours of monitoring, noticed I was having contractions. Big ish ones, every 2-5 minutes...that I could NOT FEEL.
Nurse 1 checked my junk and said, “yep, 1-2 dilated, 70% effaced...”
In comes Doctor 1 and shots and panic and meds and surprise and off I was wheeled to admitting and a labor room.
Nurse 2 checked my junk and said, “yep, 2-3 dilated, 80% effaced...”
Thank goodness my Mom was there...we just couldn’t believe it.
Doctor 1 checked my junk and said, “yep, 3 dialated, 80% effaced...”
So more shots and pills and waiting and wondering. Still no contraction pain...
Admitted officially to labor, paperwork signed, fears felt, NICU explained, potentials discussed, and Doctor 1 checked my junk again and said, “yep, 4 dialated, 80% effaced...”

I had more hands in my junk in 20 hours than I have had in months. Like, literally and literally.

After rib pain inquiry and a jolly jaunt in the car—preterm labor was the haps and I hadn’t even brought a water bottle.
Round the clock meds considering they wouldn’t let me take the ones I’d brought from home... antacids, Prozac, benedryl, antibiotics, steroids, procardia, to name a few. There is no real rest to be had in a hospital... and nurses come in all shapes, sizes, and personalities.

Eventually and on day four my dear OB came in, gently cervical checked me, reduced me to 3.2 dilation and 80%, and released me unto my own recognizance with the direction of modified bed rest.

Its been a whirlwind—hospital and home.
i couldn’t believe I couldn’t feel any contractions? Am I just so tough? Supermom? Naive?

Every spasm and twinge, a panic.
Every gaseous thud, a worry.
Every pee, a search for blood or mucus or clot.
Every night, a dream of water breaking.
Endless worry about preemie care, Nugget’s health, my comfort, “the plan,” and the realization that even the tiny things you thought you could control...you can’t.
Birth plan, schmirth plan.
Let’s just have a healthy baby, healthy mama.

The gist of the goal seemed to be to keep Kiddo in the oven until at least the 36 week mark, which is this upcoming Tuesday. After that, birth away! I will be able to walk, attend, socialize, move, drive, shop, and visit. All my energy has gone into research and worry and power baking this Kiddo... I haven’t doodled or written a thing until now.
I decided to illustrate my birth plan.
Ha.
Seems fitting, having Kiddo on Pride Rock after half a ward was up my cooter and giving me drugs.
​

I just want to complain for a minute.
Most of the rumors are true.
Third trimester is filled with all the same yuck of the first, but with added shittiness for flavor.

You lose your lungs, you lose your vagina.
You can't tend to your feet so those turn into hideous, dead skin bird claws.
Your Nugget grows and pushes your ribs out and heat and ice soothe none.
It's exhausting just to masturbate so... yeah, no.
You pee on your hands every time you're asked for a urine sample, which is now weekly.
Your face swells and the glow you had turns into sweat. And more sweat.
Your gums NEVER STOP BLEEDING.
Sleep. Ha. That's a fucking joke.
You can't even bring yourself to leave the house to pickup more antidepressants.
Your joints weaken and every little thing is amplified into a world of discomfort and awkward.
Nothing stays clean after you clean it so you just keep cleaning things again and again.
You fret over every movement the Nugget makes.
You fret over every movement the Nugget doesn't make.
You're tired of belly touches and unsolicited advice.
Heartburn. All of the heartburn. Torches. wildfires, burning everywhere all the time.
You have no income and haven't had any for a long time which is ridiculous.
You've had no contact with FOB and haven't seen the man IN TWO MONTHS who so convincingly dumped you to be friends to be there every step of the way by your side through this pregnancy.
Your back hurts from building the high road, being uncomfortable, and sleeping akimbo.
Your arms hurt from holding you back from every run away thought you want to have, but shouldn't.
Your heart hurts cuz it still hasn't forgotten anything.
Your mind races after every weird dream you have, admiring all the things still undone.

And seven weeks left.

Allegedly.

Until you become a Mom.
A Mom.
Whatever that is.
Aside from a big, dark unknown blank spot.

I shared a post to the facebooks the other day that went a little something like this:
”Got the guilts.
Haven’t been walking my miles like I had been.
Haven’t been doin my morning preggo yoga.
Been enjoying the sugar and the bread.
Haven’t gotten to the post office, the store, the consignment place, or the art shows.
Flaked on more plans than I’ve kept.
All I wanna do is sleep and vegetate and bathe and feel time pass so I can hang out with this tiny dictator, new bff, ball of leaking smoosh, and have this new mom job already.
Ambitious and restless meets ever expanding burning flesh body of winded catharsis means total body disconnect.
⛈⛈⛈⛈
Thanks for being my friends still, friends.”

The overwhelming response was that of comfort in the shape of well wishes and “don’t be concerned’s” and alla that is just about being third trimester pregnant. A lot of “listen to your body” and such.
Good advice, love my friends, and yes.

....but.... but... how do I do that?

Except mixed signals. That’s the problem.
The Body is all:

• I AM HUNGRY! I ACHE! FEED ME! STOP MOVING! STAY HOME! LAY DOWN! BACK PAIN <yowch> BELLY KICKS <thwap thwap> FARTGASFART!
  

My Mind is all:

• YOU SHOULD BE PAINTING, WALKING, EATING HEALTHIER, SLEEPING LESS, BREATHING DEEPER, HAVING SEX, REACHING OUT, GOING PLACES, DOING THINGS, TIMES INFINITY!

My Heart is all:

• I love. I hate. We love. We hate. Let’s love. Let’s hate. But looooove.

My Hormones are all:

• RAGE! RAAAAAAAGE! RAAAAAGE AGAINST THE DYING AND THE LIVING AND THE BRIGHTNESS OF ALL THE MUTHAFUCKING LIGHT IN THE UNIVERSE!?!?

The Pills be like:

• ”Yo, Mama, chiiiiiiill....”

...so it feels like one big organ-ized argument happening inside me all the time.
Anxiousness met with sedation,
heartburn met with spicy pickle cravings,
backaches met with desire to hike,
and nine weeks left to be amazed, befuddled, humbled, and confused. By the time I figure out which part of me I should listen to and when, Nugget is gonna be out and about, serving up cuteness and diapers the likes of which shall bring chaos to my household. I'll be battling hormone drop, baby blues, and bloody diapers of my own.
As for the past week and I'm sure the coming weeks... I don't wanna leave my house, I don't wanna go anywhere, I don't wanna do much, and I don't wanna see anyone. Other preggo mamas tell me (and sourced me) that's a sign of nesting.

But with this internal cocktail of hormones and prozac, I have no idea how to find the root of anything happening inside me anymore.
I have a few theories though... mystical maybe's that might explain the why's.
Why don't I want to go for walks in the chilly sunshine?
(Maybe it's because I'm so over thinking about my life and my failed relationship that I literally can't take anymore so my bodily instinct of emotional self-preservation is taking over?)
But what about a short stroll with friends?
(Maybe because the Nugget Cave feels like a goddamn cannonball in my upper pussy area and every step I take is met by furious gravity?)
Why don't you want people over to comfort and celebrate and socialize?
(Maybe because the flu epidemic is insane and I can only apply hand sanitizer so many times before my flesh falls off)
What about yoga and practicing some of that hypnobirthing meditation?
(It makes me sleepy... and if I sleep in the day I can't sleep at night... and if I can't sleep at night all I do is toss and turn and get up to pee and binge watch Planet Earth II and Gilmore Girls)

I want this blog to thrive, this website to flourish, my mind and body to agree, my soul to be chill, my heart to heal--all these efforts PLUS growing a belly monster means...

I don’t know if you’ll find this entertaining...or astounding... or embarrassing...or a sign of our ridiculous health care times. Probably all of the above.
In short and as I've stated....this pregnancy has not been easy.
Really.
For reals.
Where I’ve lucked out on the physical front—very little discomfort, no morning sickness, not a ton of weight gain, I suffered threefold in the mental health department.
I am an artist. We are bizarre, moody creatures filled with turbulent emotion and social anxiety. That’s how we roll. I’d learned to roll with it for thirty years.
Until pregnancy.
Until hormones.
Until, like, October 2017.

I had these panic attacks in September and October, the third and fourth months of my pregnancy, where my mind wouldn’t stop. I was bombarded by intrusive thoughts, plagued by uncontrollable insecurity, and I spun out like a motherfucker for days unable to pinpoint or halt the physiological or emotional insanity that was each panic attack. Over the course of that time I stopped painting, stopped playing guitar, stopped seeing family and friends, and basically halted everything that made me. The worst part was that... I could see it. I was atop myself, outside myself. I was split into pieces and each one was fully conscious and aware. In those moments, the new panicked driver of my body and mind was this omniscient entity that I had absolutely no control over. Like a cowboy on a bucking bronco that longed for death so at least the ride would be over.
Before I was pregnant I was paying an assload of money a month for catastrophic insurance that I’d been grandfathered into keeping through the last ten years. This shit-tastic insurance apparently didn’t include maternity coverage. Not one...bit. Well, one bit... should I have a complication during birth, it might consider covering that complication if it fit in the standard.

Assload of $$ for shit-tastic.

Considering FOB has/had/will have amazing insurance.... and absolutely no intention of marrying me, I am still slammed with first trimester bills from my fancy insurance and have only found relief through Medicaid.
Health Plan of Nevada.
I picked the only plan my OBGYN accepted and just went with it. I really reeeeeally like my Doc and it’s been really important that I get to keep him as my provider.
I remember the first appointment I told my Doc I was feeling blue. More blue than normal blue. Payne’s gray and constantly sobbing with thoughts of self-harm as a matter of fact. He told me to find a therapist and I agreed. He told me we could handle it and I believed.
Simple, right?

Ha.
Wouldn’t simple be nice?

So I began the process...
I started with the list of therapists and offices my Doc gave me.
Three “no, we don’t accept that insurance” and one “we aren’t accepting new clients.”
I continued on...
I asked friends for references, posted on social media, went through the virtual phone book that is Google...
”No new clients/not that insurance” every time.
I called Medicaid and was pointed to mental health care offices of Las Vegas... which transferred me to the Behavior Institute of Reno... which rattled off a list of names. I called. I left messages. I emailed.
One even had the answer, "we are only accepting new clients if there is a substance abuse problem." I briefly considered fibbing myself into addiction just to get the help I needed.

Days and weeks passed and the sheer embarrassment of having to constantly ask for help, beg for help, summarize my sicknesses in voicemail after voicemail... it all wore on me as I continued to suffer.
I was so full of self hate.
I was so full of hate for FOB.
I hated this baby.
I hated asking for help and I hated being turned down.

Finally, I called the lowest name on my list. A name I’d never heard of at a practice I’d never seen in an area of town I’d never associated with medical professionalism or fine mental health.

They could see me on Friday.
She could. Whatever her name was. Her. Yes. Thank god.
​
I cried tears of joy. I thanked the receptionist profusely and felt hope. Hope. For the first time in months.

I went into the dumpy office with so much hope... so much psychosomatic relief that finally FINALLY someone was going to help me understand, sharpen, collect, and utilize all the coping skills that I had somehow forgotten or didn't know existed.

How.... do I summarize this encounter? I really want to give it the narrative it deserves, but it's... so fucking preposterous... I just wanna hit you with all the highlights and punches and let you chew it up as you like.

We began with a family history, questions like ''what does your father/mother/sibling do and any history of mental illness?" etc. After every answer I gave, She had a comment.
"Oh, so you didn't grow up poor..."
"That must've been nice on easy street..."
"That explains a few things..."

*ahem*

We switched to my problems. I opened up, determined, about my panic attacks, depression, etc. and hat I was hoping to get out of this therapy...She replied,
"Well, if you're gonna reach for anything, reach for marijuana. Don't drink a drop. Not one drop is safe. Weed, the jury is still out on.... and it's great for anxiety."

*blinkblink*

We moved to current events. FOB had just dumped me, five months pregnant, the previous week and I couldn't stop crying hysterically.
She said,
"If he is the only male in his immediate family, he's been raised like a prince so be wary of that..."
and
"Oh, he makes good money, he should buy a duplex and put you on the other side..."
and to top it off
"I could start a separate thriving practice for white pregnant women who have been deserted by their baby's Latino fathers. It's just what happens... especially the first time Dads in the group...."

*cough*

What???
That was some racist, narrow minded, judgemental shit. I was astonished. I was baffled. I can't believe I sat there ten minutes more to pretend to make another appointment. I was offended. I was shocked. I was... deflated... after having so much hope for this help. This woman had sat across from me, summed me up in her eyes, judged me, ill-advised me, and then basically said FOB dropped me cuz he's Mexican.

I was outraged and still am. I have since reported this person anonymously to the appropriate board and who knows what's happened to her. Hopefully she's been put in check.

I never went back. What a fucking nutjob. Man, and I thought I was crazy.

In short, I stopped asking for help and began creating my own.
Yoga? Yes.
Support groups? Yes.
Writing? Yes.
Drawing? Yes.
Prozac? You betcha.

Am I fixed and all better? Hell no.
Am I on the heaps and piles happier than I was the ass end of 2017? Heck yeah.

Heaps.
Piles.
and Nugget.

It's a new year according to the calendar.
I feel like we do it wrong and we should really start New Year on the winter solstice so we could all revel in the fact that the days are getting longer and the light is returning to life.
...Hey.
That's not a hippie thing to say--it's science, man.

I've got a lot of shit left to do to get ready for this Kiddo:

• Find a pediatrician
• Not turn into a waddling seacow with Mom butt and continue to exercise
• Figure out how the fuck I'm going to get a car seat into my twenty plus year old Jeep Wrangler
• Continue planning a party for the belly beast I haven't met yet
• Stabilize income
• Come to co-parenting terms
• Decide what to name the Babe
• Read books on how to actually raise the Babe
• Birth the Babe
• Stop Googling things like 'episiotomy' and 'health care reform'

It goes on and on and on.

Oh, 2018, you even numbered tease, you.
Oh, 2017, you 'practice makes pregnant' rollercoaster, you.

2017 was a jerk. As much as it feels like looking the gift horse in the mouth cuz shit could currently be a crap-ton worse, it’s difficult not to mourn my hopes, dreams, and expectations of 2017. The last few months have been gravely overshadowed by heartbreak and loss and have felt like a cruel time puzzle. I keep flashing to that one part of Labyrinth where Bowie has crappy Connelly babysitter trapped in one of his fancy clear balls in a big pink poofy dress and is tricking her into wasting Toby-saving hours.  It’s as if I have been living the same day over and over with no control over it’s improvement or outcome, floating forward-ish-ly through a hazy gray procession further into the unknown and alone. Each holiday... from Halloween to now...to today... being a reminder of what isn’t, what wasn’t, and won’t be.
Happy pills are helping me.
Thank you, happy pills. MVP of 2017. They help my brain douse each thought with slightly less kerosene. They give me the ability to ride atop each thought like a calm cowboy and decide whether to buck the bronc home. They also make my legs twitch in bed.
They don't keep me from all the thoughts, from sadness or loss. They don't keep me from reflecting, on retrospect, on hindsight.
Again, just sliiiightly less kerosene.
I guess I'd like to scribble an ode to those thoughts. Allow them the space they're so feverishly and diligently still fighting for in new hopes that they disappear. They say labeling a feeling (without judgement) is a good way to be rid of a feeling--and by 'they' I mean the leaders of all the pregnant and depressed groups I've attended in the last two months as well as the self-help book authors... and pinterest.

I'm to FLOW
F-Feel it
L--Label it (without judgement)
O--Open the
W--Window to let it go

So.... let's crack the back door, shall we?


I mourn the loss of a big love, the one I chose to start a family with.
I mourn the loss of his friendship, his strength, his companionship, and his commitment.
I mourn the loss of a partner to walk through this pregnancy with, to hold hands and cling onto, and to bounce fears off and from.
I mourn the dream of our family, the three of us and holiday blessings that were to come with our future.
I mourn my concepts of self worth and the ensuing battle of feeling not only knocked up and unworthy to wed, but knocked up and dumped, discarded at my most hopeful and vulnerable.
I mourn the lesser than experiences of my unborn child, how Nugget knows little music nor the sound of her fathers voice.
I mourn the death of my maiden self and the wild, untamed female I was forever committed to be.
I mourn the unknown transformation of my art and my ability to focus and pickup a paint brush for more than half a year.
I mourn the freedom of those around me who love me and the future cost of this love as a burden to their wellbeings and plans.
I mourn my physical self and the future scars of this physical upgrade as I battle tokophobia, body dysmorphia, insecurity, and every other self-hating statement rambling under my skin about my bones.



This is a really big year.
One I didn't see coming, one I never thought would happen, and one I can't control. My body is on autopilot, my future is multiplying, the '8' in 2018 reminds me of boobies, and I still wish I had a dog. Nothing will be the same ever again.

I mourn the illusion of control I once had.
I feel like I want to drive out to Pyramid Lake, light some shit on fire, and release the ashes.
Ok.
Yes.
That's some hippie witchy shit.

All the same,
May all these aspects, all these sides, all these part of me, all these thoughts of me, rest in calm peace and not stink up the future decomposing cuz I didn't dig a deep enough hole.
​

The anti-depressants I'm on have made an improvement in my mental health, but are doing weird things to my body. I've been on them near two weeks. Mind you, I've never taken any medication beyond the occasional pain killer for fun my entire life.
I've had morning nausea and bouts of vertigo and it's been really a battle to focus. My mouth tastes like metal and I've had to switch to taking pills at night to try to sleep through the feelings. Doesn't really help that my bladder and my brain wake me up at 3:30am with saturated fullness. I haven't painted at all, but I've managed to do these little blogs and doodles. That gives me some focus hope.
So I feel like I'm just walking around my house like a zombie. Upstairs, downstairs, this room, that room, shower, makeup, couch, food--no real fire, no real feeling, just... existing.
I'll also take this combination of feeling and emotion over the manic panic ones before. At least my brain is somewhat docile and it's my body that doesn't know what to do. There's less fuel to the self and world anxiety, less fuel all around.
It's not even 11am and I'm about to turn in for my second nap of the day.
Oh yeah, I'm still building a human inside me so... there's that, too, i guess.
Onward and outward!

100 days left of pregnancy which means Nugget and I have survived 180 days inside the same roof without killing each other. We're off to a good start, but I wouldn't say the road hasn't been paved without difficulty.
The last 5-10 years of my unmedicated womanhood (I stopped taking the pill in my late twenties and it was the best thing I've ever done for my own mental health and body), I'd been blessed with a light period--barely there crampy-ness, little to no PMS, and the slightest bloating. If I was acting the twat around my menstrual cycle I would call myself out on it and not let it rain down and ruin me. The men I dated actually thanked me. It was something I learned to not brag about at an early age because the looks alone from women I would mention it to could kill. I knew pregnancy and it's hormonal effect on the body was gonna be tough... but nothing prepared me for the dark, crippling hole of depression, violent pendulum-esque mood swings, and multiple day panic attacks I would endure.
Panic attacks would induce an out of body and mind experience that I still couldn't describe accurately if I tried.  They would start with an intrusive thought and snowball from there. FOB would go out for an evening of friends and I'd be home pacing, sobbing, screaming, counting, circling, panting, panicking.
I couldn't control my thoughts, my heart rate, my words, anything. Everything came barreling out of me angry and forceful.
I could not physically exhaust myself in any way to make the feelings stop.
I didn't play (and haven't played) guitar in months.
I couldn't focus to paint.
I wrote insane rants in my journal.
I cut off all my friends.
I didn't leave the house.
Nothing brought me joy.
Thoughts of doom and dread were all consuming.
I looked to my FOB, desperately clung to him, for any source of happiness because mine was completely... and utterly gone.

I reached out. Many times. I was often met with dead ends and misunderstanding. FOB froze... and eventually broke up with me (we'll get to this later) in my manic state, leaving me even more in the ground... except now I was shitting water from stress and sobbing uncontrollably most hours of the day from the simplest of triggers.
I kept reaching.
My insurance made it impossible to find a GOOD therapist (lord, that's another blog all together... ) I could afford in my new, unemployed, single, poor pregnant state so I joined three weekly pregnancy circles. One, hosted by a dear friend and donated out of charity... another hosted by a local motherhood business and group technically meant for mothers suffering from postpartum depression, and another freebie at the same business on Saturdays.
I moved back in with my mother.
And, through persistence, my doctor finally prescribed an anti-depressant which... as much as I've pill shamed myself, I am glad to be taking.
It's been about ten days on the meds and... I'm nauseous, dizzy, my jaw is tense, and still struggling to focus... but the intrusive thoughts have weakened and lessened and I actually have some hope for my life. It could be psychosomatic this early in the game, but I don't care. Hope is hope.

I've got 100 days left with this Kiddo inside me and I finally feel pregnant. I think I might even be happy about it? I jokingly refer to the Kiddo as Lemonade cuz... man oh man I'm trying to make it.
FOB and I are still broken up and, as much as that haunts me... and all my dreams... I'm healthier for it.
I didn't give up asking for help. I asked reddit, I asked facebook, I asked my insurance, I asked my friends, I asked family, I asked my Doc and finally, through cumulative effort, I'm on the road to somewhere better than where I was.

Here are a list of links that helped me:
The Nurturing Nest Reno--Circles and Support
Ashley Hanna Morgan--LCSW
Reddit--Babybumps
Sacred Pregnancy--Sheila LeDrew

Having put all my eggs in one life and love basket has bit me in the ass and left me unemployed, incredibly poor, single, pregnant, and living with my mother. I wish I could say that I wouldn't have it any other way, but... I'd... I'd certainly have it any other way. Don't get me wrong, I'm sickeningly grateful for the relatively gentle fallout I've experienced from my life implosion. I just... still wish it hadn't quite imploded.
Having said that... I'm trying to carry on through this pregnancy with a sense of normalcy and one of those normal things that normal pregnant women do it have a baby shower... baby sprinkle... baby tinkle... or blessingway ritual.
As someone struggling with social anxiety and depression, this is a fucking nightmare.
As someone who really needs baby clothes and bottles cuz she can't afford life on her own right now, this is a fucking nightmare.

The struggle?
I know a ton of amazing women--women who've influenced my life in unforgettable ways, in fleeting moments of impact, and in long lasting durable relationships. I know women who've invited me to their baby showers who think of me in the same way. I know women who I just think are cool and would like to get to know better. I know women I need in this Nugget's life. I know women who I don't know who I just feel like I should invite because they're friends or family with my ex and part of his life.  Do I invite them all? Will they think I just need stuff? Will they show up? What do I do with them when they get here? What if my house isn't big enough? What if they feel obligated or awkward or pressured to attend?

I don't know how to focus on myself with all these other people walking around on the planet at the same time.
I know this in my pregnancy.
I know this is my Nugget.
I know this is a temporary step in a long life journey.

I just kinda wish I could sleep through it.

I've got two amazing girlfriends who are gonna plan this thing for me. They've volunteered and I've relinquished and it's happening. No silly parties, crock pots only, vicarious mimosa drinking, brunch thingie on a Saturday in February.  There's a date set so now I can count down the clock and wind myself up with anxiety as it approaches.
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help" keeps repeating.

"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"
"Motherhood is hard, babies are expensive, you love these women, let them help"