Snot Child in the City

Who knew someone so damn cute could also be so damn contagious?

Despite our valiant attempts at Clorox-wiping the entire house, despite repeated hand-washing and hand-sanitizing that would fill even Jack Nicholson's OCD afflicted character in As Good As It Gets with awe, despite soaking ourselves in orange juice and tea with honey, a mucous-mustachioed M has taken B, my Fairy-Godmother-in-Law, and me down with her.

Achoo. Achoo. Achoooooooooooooooooo.

Sniff. Sniff.

Cough.

It ain't pretty: B's congestion is the stuff of legend. Last night, in between chain-saw massacre snores, while riding the waves of Alpha sleep, he spent a good chunk of the night muttering obscenities like "fuck" and "this is bullshit" under his breath. And in between my bone-weariness, itchy belly, leg cramps, and congestion, I've chartered new depths of whiny-ass paranoia.

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

And here's the thing: If this were all happening last month we'd be miserable, but I wouldn't be freaking out. You see, while it's T minus 2 weeks until we reach the date on the calendar with the big red circle around it, technically, Little Homie could come any time. Even now, as I write this post, my belly is tightening in the familiar vice-like grip of a braxton hicks contraction, signaling that labor may not be that far off. While part of me can't wait to get this baby out, the timing sucks. Since it's Snot City over here, if the contractions really get going, or my water breaks, I'll probably have to go through labor alone, because the staff at Cedars are even more germaphobic than I am.

So, anyone out there want to hold my legs back while I push? I promise, it'll make you think long and hard about losing the condoms or tossing out the birth control.

I thought not.