I'm the worst pregnant lady ever. Everything's gone smoothly so far and I haven't stopped whining and worrying and bothering everyone with each and every detail of my physical maladies for a millisecond. The good news is, this abysmal behavior on my part will work as great insurance that I never get knocked up again. Even if I lost my mind and tried to procreate another time, and even if I hypnotized David and got him on board, the extended community of friends, acquaintances, pediatricians and OBs will never, ever let it happen. An intervention would surely take place, if only to spare them the pain and suffering of listening to my lamentations.
The other thing I've realized in the past few months is that I am going to be a really shitty old person. If I can't handle nine months of mild, temporary discomfort, which will be more or less instantly cured after childbirth, at the end of which is waiting the gleaming, spectacular reward -- that I craved so dearly - a baby, then there's no freaking way I'm going to be able to handle old age. Its not temporary, for starters, and the only reward at the end of all the accumulating agony . . . is death. David has already decided he's going to go before me, just so he doesn't have to listen to me whine. I don't blame him.