Baby is fine. Miles is. . .Miles, with all that implies. Patrick is good, and possibly a saint for everything he does so I can be a laze-about groaning about my tummy. The cat is highly amusing, in that she simultaneously adores Miles and is terrified by him. Stacey is, I think, doing well. I see her on occasion, so I'm sure she's at least still alive. Faire is exhausting. Frankenstein (the Halloween show I agreed to assistant direct before I knew about this whole pregnancy thing) is exhausting. Miles is exhausting. Typing is exhausting. I completely lost it and cried to Maestro yesterday about how exhausted I am (not really his fault, poor guy). I'm that sort of exhausted where no amount of sleep helps. It's just never enough.
And this week, I'm dealing with the emotional roller-coaster of realizing that my son, my wonderful, amazing baby boy, is no longer a baby. Hell, he's not even a toddler anymore. He is officially in the 'preschooler' age range, which we all know is a hop, skip, and a jump from graduating high school and moving out and getting married. And pregnancy hormones mean I'm vacillating between sobbing madly at the thought that he's all grown up already, and sobbing, wondering when will he stop crapping his pants?!? In any case, there's a lot of sobbing.
As if that weren't enough, an ultrasound last week made this pregnancy seem really real for the first time. I'm going to be holding a little bundle of blankets and cuteness in a few months, which makes me all moony and wistful and excited. And then it hits me that the bundle will also contain poop, and spit-up, and screaming sleeplessness, and I want to go hide in a corner and sob some more.
Pregnancy really does kinda suck.