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Broke Wife, Big City
Read this. Or
not. I don’t really care.
By Aprill Brandon
As I sit here with my laptop, a million years pregnant, looking like
Violet Beauregarde from Willie Wonka (only rounder and more obnoxious),
I can’t help but wonder “what the hell am I doing?”
Not meaning the pregnancy, of course. It’s much too late for that
regret. She’s big enough to qualify for social security at this point.
No, I mean this is likely my last post for awhile. One, because I could
give birth any day now (although considering my previous birthing
record, by “any day now” I mean “two weeks past forever”). And after I
do I’m going to take a small break from writing so I can concentrate on
the important things, like cuddling with my new baby and finding new
places in my house where I can hide so I can sob over my destroyed
nipples in private.
Two, my brain has been slowly dissolving in a vat of bubbling hormones
for months now, making anything more complicated than dipping deep
fried Cheetos stuffed with mac n’ cheese into tartar sauce damn near
impossible.
So, I want to at least try to pull myself together and make this last
one a good one. You know, funny but sweet. Perhaps even a bit profound.
And you’d think finding a topic would be easy considering I’m now too
big to do anything other than recline on the couch and moan, leaving me
plenty of time to worry unnecessarily about things I have absolutely no
control over.
The thing is, though, at this stage, I don’t care about anything other
than getting this THING out of me.
Sorry. That’s not very maternal. I mean, getting this adorable THING
out of me.
Right friggin’ now.
For
example, I was going to write about my catch-22 fears of trying to
give birth after having a C-section while also simultaneously being
afraid of having a second C-section. But then I realized I
just…(sigh)…I just don’t care. She can come out any way she wants. She
can burrow out my uterus “Shawshank Redemption” style and make her
grand entrance via my mouth if she wants. Just as long as she is
outside my body and I can finally roll over in bed without the help of
a crowbar, a crane and a decent-sized construction
crew.
After scraping that idea, I managed to croak out a few sentences about
my concerns regarding my first born. Will I have enough time for him
after she’s born? Will he still love me as much as he does now when I’m
constantly distracted by his newborn sister? Am I properly mourning the
end of the “just me and him” era?
But…again…I don’t really care. I’m tired and hot and can’t get off the
couch without assistance. Any issues that stem from this period in my
toddler son’s life can be dealt with later (likely via his memoir in
which I am referred to as his “momster”).
Being pregnant in the summer, I also tossed around a paragraph or two
about my FOMO, or “fear of missing out.” Scrolling through social
media, I am inundated with images of friends and family and that
bartender I met eight years ago doing fun summery things at lakes and
in rivers and on the ocean. They’re going to ballgames and amusement
parks and beer gardens. They are having the time of their
Instagram-filtered lives and here I sit on the couch with nothing but a
bucket of chicken and six fans pointed directly at my face.
But, if I’m being honest, leaving the house is pretty much the last
thing I want to do. My house has everything a pregnant lady could
possibly want or need (specifically, Netflix, a bed and a good-looking
husband who leaves me the hell alone unless it is to fetch me more
cheese to eat in bed). I’ll enjoy those stupid fireflies and bonfires
and blah, blah, other unforgettable summer memories, blah, next year.
Because again, I don’t care. About anything. Except surviving these
last few weeks.
OK, that’s not entirely true. I do slightly care about not murdering
anyone until this baby comes out. But that’s only because I will not
fair well in prison and not necessarily because I care about stupid
crap like the sanctity of life and morals right now.
So, I apologize for wasting your time, dear readers. I hope you can
forgive me and I promise to come back with fresh material and a whole
new cheery outlook on life (or whatever).
But if you can’t, it’s cool.
I just…(sigh)…don’t care.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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