Thumb Twiddling

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mother, overdue, parents, pregnancy

Nope, nothing yet.

Just saying.

I’m not even that Braxton-Hicks-y. The six and seventh month had WAY more uncomfortable contracting than this, the 41st week.

Babby’s still moving, though, which is important, even if he is still floating around under my ribs.

Meanwhile, my mother has taken over, and is cooking, cleaning, and currently hunched over in my yard digging up weeds with a trowel, which essentially means digging up my entire YARD with a trowel, since there is no plant life in my yard which is not, by definition, a weed.

Nineteen more days…

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countdown, mother, parents, pregnancy

…’Til my Mommy arrives.

I think I’m more excited for that than for Babby’s birth. Maybe because Babby’s birth is filled with things I don’t like – pain, and worse, CHANGE.

Meanwhile I know exactly what it will be like having my Mum here – she’ll clean the house we just cleaned before she arrived, she’ll tsk tsk over things, she’ll take over in the kitchen, she’ll make us twitch by talking about Wikipedia’s liberal bias or why Stephen Harper is the new Christ figure (still can’t figure out why the woman who raised me to be left wing turned right wing in her retirement), and she’ll immediately buckle down to dealing with everything that bothers me. I’ll fight and fume and then lay back and let her take care of everything, like when I was little.

Like I said… I can’t wait.

Suicidal schmuicidal. I’m talking about a NOSE JOB here!

Tags

antidepressants, boy cousin, mother, nose job, parents, phone calls

So it was fun this evening, trying to tell my mother that I am on antidepressants without making it sound like a big deal. My mother has that inherent distaste towards mental illness which all the older generation seem to have, so it was hard to slip this in casually during a normal phone conversation.

“Oh, nothing really new. You? Work is about the same. Oh! I’m on antidepressants now.

“Yeah… I was crying a lot the other night so Perfect Husband popped me into the hospital.

“Yeah, I’m fine.

“Hey, did you hear that Boy Cousin got a NOSE JOB? Yes, MY boy cousin! A nose job! Isn’t that crazy?

“…It’s called Wellbutrin. But you should really call your brother and gossip with him about his son’s nose job.

“Yes, I’m fine, really. Come on… NOSE JOB!”

Despite my conviction that my cousin’s unexpected and probably unwarranted cosmetic surgery was more interesting news, my mother seemed to want to fixate on why I need medication and more importantly whether it was her fault.

Of course, she decided that it probably was her fault, because she thinks everything is her fault. Like, everything. World War II? Yeah, that happened because my mother wasn’t a good enough mother to me. In fact, Eve probably wouldn’t have eaten the apple if only my mother hadn’t transferred her latent anxieties to me in my childhood! It’s a good thing my mother comes clean about stuff like this, or the world would never know.