It has been bizarrely warm over the last several days. I am a person who loves warmth. I love summer. I love sunshine. I don't even mind humidity much (usually.) BUT -- and there's always a big but -- I've never been largely pregnant in hot weather before. If I have anything to do with the timing of further children, I never will be again. My calves are swollen. My ankles are swollen. My feet are swollen to the point of being painful. My toes look like sausages by the end of the day. I am uncomfortable. I keep thinking about my mom going waaaaay overdue with my brother ... in July ... in Texas ... and I know I have no real reason to complain ... and then I look at my puffy feet or limp to the bathroom to pee again and I feel justified in a teeny tiny bit of being sorry for myself.
It is supposed to be much cooler tomorrow and already feels wonderful to have the windows open with a lovely cool breeze blowing through the apartment. I am hopeful for some thunderstorms tonight. I am also hopeful that I will wake up if it rains so that I can close windows.
The Boogie and I took Baby Sister to the doctor for a belly check today. We were there for two hours. We saw the doctor for about ten minutes. It was ridonkulous. I love my doctor and I like the staff in his office, but that kind of waiting has been pretty much the norm for all of my recent visits and it's getting old, people. Like really old. Thankfully we only have a few weeks of visits left. Baby Sister is doing well. Her head is down and she likes to snuggle her back against my right side with her shoulder pressed against my right hip (most annoying when she has the hiccups.) She is squirming around right now, right on schedule. Same time every night! As uncomfortable as it can be, the only thing I would trade it for would be holding her in my arms or watching her sleep next to me.
This afternoon when the Boogie took a nap I took one too, which meant sleeping during the time I should have been making dinner. My Man went to Wawa and bought hoagies for us, and I made a tuna sandwich for the Boogie and gave her a pickle and some canned pineapple. She ate the pickle first like an ear of corn and asked for more. "Finish your food and you can have more pickle," I told her. She ate the pineapple and asked for more of it and another pickle. "Eat your sandwich and then you can have more," we both told her. She poked at her sandwich and picked off pinches of bread and ate them. Finally her daddy insisted that she take one real bite of it. She held the bite in her mouth and whined and whimpered. "Is that still in your mouth?" I asked. She opened her mouth to show it to me (gross.) "Chew it!" I demanded. "Chew it up and swallow it!" She choked and gagged and swallowed it and shuddered. I laughed and laughed and laughed! I am a terrible mother. It was so funny. I didn't make her finish it. She had pickle and pineapple for dinner. Oh well. You win some and you lose some. At least she ate one bite. And I guess we'll stick to PB&J after this.
I have a confession to make. Before I write a new blog post, I have to go back and read the last one I wrote. I have to make sure I don't repeat myself. I just thought you should know that about me. I forget a lot of things and I'm only twenty- ... four. Or thereabouts.