I am an incubator and I'm running out of room.
I can’t tie my tennis shoes and my sandals don’t fit anymore. Why is it that the maternity pants that I loved two weeks ago are so ugly this week? I can’t reach down and pick up anything left on the floor because I fear I won’t get back up again if I tried. I can’t sleep on my back, but I can’t sleep on my side and I definitely can’t sleep on my stomach (although, I slept well on the recliner today during the afternoon session of conference.) I had the 3 hour glucose test this week and I looked like a drug user after four consecutive blood draws. I’m constantly being kicked or poked, and I don’t stray far from the restroom either.
I am a freakshow for female emotions.
While catching up on some blogs today, I found a new one created for the missionary son of my friend who left last week. You have never seen me cry so hard as I did this afternoon. I already miss my son and he doesn’t leave for 18 months. OK, maybe you did yesterday when someone said I looked “manish” because of my short hair. (Did they really say that?) I’m sure I took that comment the wrong way, I had to, right? Then again, I cry when I find out how much weight people are losing on that Biggest Loser show, Hallmark commercials, made for t.v. movies, and kisses from my 15 month baby.
I am a voice recorder with no OFF button.
Please pick up your toys. You are grounded to your room until it is clean. Did your teacher really assign you Chopsticks this week for your piano lesson? You’re hungry again? I fed you like an hour ago. Money? Do I look like a bank? Didn’t I tell you to go to bed already? What were you thinking? And my favorite…I don’t understand what you don’t understand about the word NO!
In 12 short weeks, I will be back to myself and I'll probably re-write this post. But for now, I’m wondering…Who are you?