I should have renamed this blog "Cranky Pregnant Lady Rants"

Perhaps high school sex educators could use the last several weeks of blog posts from my pregnancy to teach teenagers birth control and abstinence.

"Teacher, why is she so bitter and vile?"

"Because the last trimester sucks, Tommy. That's why you should always put a condom on your peener when you let it out to play. And while you're at it, send your girlfriend flowers the next day, you insensitive prick."

Sigh.

33 weeks and my abdominal muscles ache like hell, I can't sleep, and the kid spends most of her day figuring out how to wedge her enormous cranium under my ribs. It's awesome. Luckily my husband's baby book says I'm right on track. Uncomfortable? Check. Can't sleep? Check. It also says that by this point people will become incredibly annoying about asking invasive questions about the pregnancy, and I'll either tolerate it well or I'll want to strangle them.

I'll leave you to guess where I fall on that scale.

The good news is, I've started nesting. And people, if I could bottle the nesting instinct, I totally would. Usually my horrible packrat tendencies leave us buried under piles of magazines and newspapers and unopened mail for weeks on end until I go completely apeshit, decide I need to clean it all at once, then spend an entire day trying to deal with it until I am exhausted and throw my hands up in the air in despair, not to touch anything again for another six months.

But this nesting instinct, it's far more sneaky. It prods me to tackle little one or two hour jobs - cleaning out the magazine pile in the family room that has three year old issues of Vanity Fair I swore I'd read again or the closet in the baby's room that has all the crap I totally told myself I'd deal with later without leaving me feeling completely overwhelmed. It spreads the effort out over weeks on end. And I gotta say, I'm getting quite a sense of accomplishment out of it. An entire carload of used clothing that I can't believe I ever wore in the first place (the 90s was a long, long decade, people) went to the Salvation Army. The recycling depot will have their hands full with all the paper they're getting next week. Plus, the nesting is giving me the added bonus of being completely ruthless with what I'm getting rid of. Haven't used it since we moved? Gone. Haven't used it since it appeared in some random Christmas stocking? SO gone. Haven't touched it since, oh, last week? Begone with you.

But the problem is, blending the nesting to the third trimester crank is a real problem, because I can't help but get on one of my look at all the useless STUFF we have in our house rants and that never ends well. Stuff, useless stuff, stuff we don't need, stuff we waste, stuff that's going to end up in a landfill to rot for the next quazillion years, and then of course the crabby starts taking me down the path of blame our materialistic society that believes shopping is the answer and I am never buying anything again EVER and I am going to forbid gifts in this house FROM NOW ON. We will live a minimalistic lifestyle with few possessions and cherish those we have!

Sure, that'll work, 7 weeks before I'm due to give birth to the grandchild of the Canadian Olympic Shopping Team*. Seriously. Between my Mother In Law ("I found this on sale at the Bay for 20% off then they took 30% on top of that and then I did a scratch and save and got another 30% and then I talked them into giving me $10 off so the saleslady actually had to give me $4.95 to take it out of the store") and my Mother ("I just found these four bags of clothes at Frenchys, you wouldn't believe the things people get rid of") they're expected to medal at the London Olympics.

Still, that's all in the distant (yes, I'm in denial, work with me here) future, and in the meantime, I can revel in all my organized cupboards and magazine-free corners. I assume this urge to organize will be gone the second the kid shows up, but until then, have you SEEN under my bathroom sink?


_{*Disclaimer: The Husband read and pre-approved this paragraph prior to publishing, believing no offense would be taken at the obviously satirical descriptions of our beloved Mothers.}