And still with the no baby. Sigh. But it gets worse. I'm on bed rest. Bed rest fucking sucks beyond all suckage. Bed rest means acting like a depressed person, which means, for moi, becoming v. v. depressed v. v. quickly. I lie in bed ALL DAY and do nothing but watch tv and maybe read, but even reading is becoming too taxing, so mostly I lie in bed and fall in and out of sleep watching episode after episode of, first, Lost (which, eh--too much like Alias, which I really couldn't stop watching even though it was completely and totally awful) and then, Veronica Mars, which is awesome, but I want to be able to get up and take a walk down to the cabin with my dogs. I want to be able to sort out this house and unpack baby things. I want to help move furniture around. I want to cook a pumpkin pie with the heritage pumpkins Craig Macon brought us (nice bloke--he also brought us deer meat and also did the mud work on our kitchen drywall. Chicken farmer who keeps bees. That's why country living is grand). I want to sweep out this whole house. I want to hang out on our new deck which Jeff just finished yesterday and for which I could barely muster up enough energy and interest to go out and see when he'd finished. I want to stop all these fits of self-loathing. I want to not start crying every single time Jeff walks in the room.

Except, I'm also scared of the baby coming. Scared I'm not up for this, any of this, not up for the giving birth nor for the parenting, nor for the working motherhood. I don't even HAVE the baby yet and I'm already freaking out about how I'm going to make it back to work when I have to go--in only three weeks, now. Shit.

Plus. Plus. Plus. I'm tired of how I look. I have gained 60 pounds in the last nine months and I am tired, so damned tired, of being this gigantic. I feel like a fatted calf. And then I feel stupid and shallow for even thinking about how I look (I'm pregnant for chrissakes, I'm supposed to look like this, right?). I've stopped even thinking about the baby (the DAMNED BABY, as I affectionaly call him/her now. Sometimes the fucking baby. Also.)

It's because my blood pressure went up. It has to be down below 130/90 for me to be able to give birth at the birth center. So, the midwife I most trust to tell it me straight and without drama says to me on Thursday, go to bed and don't get up. Otherwise, it's to the hospital for me and I really don't want to go to the hospital. I don't want to go for all the reasons that include wanting to have a non-medicalized birth without all the glare and whiteness of the hospital, but also because we're broke and we've already paid off the birth center and the hospital would just cost us another wad of cash, which we don't have. On Friday, after a day of bedrest my bp was 141/83, which was fucking higher than it had been on Thursday with the midwife. I'm going to check it again today. Please please please please. Because I need the baby to come soon (otherwise to the hospital, but for different reasons), but I'm scared to go into labor before getting my bp down.

Isn't this all so fascinating?

I'm damned tired of feeling sorry for myself, of not answering the phone, and of avoiding all positive contact with actual living creatures in the world. Today! I! Am! Going! To! Be! Happy! Today!

Ugh. Where's my damned gun? For to shoot meself in the damned head?