Thirty-Seven-and-a-Half-Weeks Pregnant

Yesterday was one of Those Days. My prenatal massage therapist got sick and had to cancel, the guy I was meeting with to have a mini-book club meeting confessed he hadn't read the book, the two-year-old refused to take a nap, a visiting friend's flight arrived at midnight instead of the more pregnancy-friendly hour of 9pm, I seem to have come down (for, like, the third time this year) with a weird vertigo-inducing inner ear virus, and, as I already mentioned, there was the barfing.

Also, when I called one of the references of the sitter I was hoping to hire, she confessed that she herself would not re-hire the sitter in question.

And the preschool down the street that I'd fallen in love with this winter confirmed—again and still—that they don't have a spot for my daughter next year.

At least I'm not thirty-seven-and-a-half-weeks pregnant and hormonal and weepy as hell! Then things would be ugly!


photo courtesy clarita, morgueFile