Reaching DEFCON Cranky

WARNING: These are the words of a very uncomfortable, very pregnant woman. Do not stand within 15 feet of this creature today.

It's not that I want to be cranky, it's just that some things and some people create the crankiness that spews from my innards. For your perusal:

It is a gorgeous day outside, after many days of 90+ degree heat and high humidity. I want to open the windows and have fresh air smelling up my house instead of stale air-conditioned air. Instead, one neighbor after another (at 1pm on a Thursday) are firing up their riding mowers, edgers, leaf blowers and jackhammers that stir up dust and their nasty pesticide-sprayed trimmings. Suburbs and the people you contain, you are not winning my love today.

The worst offender is the 9 year old boy who lives next door. He puts on his shades and rides a giant mower full speed around and around his house. He has a certain attention-deficit situation, so instead of focusing on finishing the task in an orderly way (like the lawn-obsessed retirees across the street), he rides and cuts in a haphazard frenzy that never ends. The father tells me that this means that he must finish the job when he gets home, in order to cut all of the weird areas that the boy left behind after two hours of mowing. You see where this leads me: listening to that gosh-darned mower not once, but TWICE in one day for hour upon hour.

I think that being over 35 weeks pregnant earns me the right to be cranky. I feel like Clint Eastwood in "Gran Torino" (or was it "El Camino"?) yelling at kids to get offa my lawn. Can you imagine if Clint had ever been pregnant? Big trouble for those kids, I tell you what.

I'm also cranky about not having any raspberry danishes in the house. I don't know why this sudden craving appeared in the last two days, but it wants to be satisfied NOW.

I'm cranky that no one else will birth this baby for me. I'm doing all of the hippie-fied stuff like hypnobirthing, water birth, and home birth, but it doesn't mean that I believe for one minute that there will be no pain. I will once again feel like I'm passing a football-sized stool while Phil tries to calmly tell me that I'm doing so well. I had a momentary freak out last week that involved panting, crying, and shaking of fists when it became all too real that the clock is ticking. There is no mystery and beauty of pregnancy this time around. I've already done that. I just want the baby in my arms. Can't I get a pass this time, saying, "Sarah has completed her creation-of-life assignment and is allowed to skip the birth this round."? Eh, blah blah blah.

I'll be even more cranky if one of you even DARES to bring up epidurals and such. I will surely punch you in the tit.

I'm cranky that I had a high blood pressure reading at the midwife's office. She voiced concern and then took it again after five minutes (it was normal then). Now she wants me to monitor my blood pressure at a pharmacy. This will make me cranky, because I don't want to leave my comfy couch while I shake fists at the neighbor boy. I know why I had the high reading. We were made to wait for my appointment, so I went to the restroom. I had things to do, if you know what I mean. Someone roughly pulled on the door while I was in there, which was the only restroom for the practice. I was flustered that someone was going to immediately be exposed to my pregnant odors, so I finished up and sprayed the room with Country Gardens or Flowers in the Mist or Bouquet in a Can. In my frenzy, my spraying aim was a bit off. The spray hit the bathroom mirror. I hoped that it would just disappear on the mirror, but no such luck. So, I grabbed a paper towel and cleaned the mirror. This resulted in a spectacular smear that got worse and worse as I frantically rubbed. All the while, I knew there was another very pregnant woman outside the door waiting to relieve her poor bladder, and I imagined that she would be sitting on the toilet and then see the mirror, wondering, "What the heck was that woman up to in here?" I was beyond flustered by the time I reached the midwife's office, which already had Phil and Amos waiting inside. So, the midwife hoisted me up on the table and started the blood pressure reading. Her first question: "Are you angry about something?"

HA! Am I angry about something. See "Gran Torino" reference, lady.

See, the trouble is, I'm normally a very happy preggie. I'm sunshine and roses and peas and carrots. I think a hot Pennsylvania summer, taking care of a toddler, and still reeling from the year-that-shall-not-be-discussed have taken their toll on my perkiness. Despite having an awesome kid and an even awesomer husband, I have become a woman of endless complaints and needs. I don't like this side of me. Five weeks to go, Cranky Sarah. Five weeks to go.

There is an upside. I think I'll have a day or two in New York City next week to see my beloved man perform there for the first time in his comedy career. I am searching for hotels with comfy beds, because if they don't have one then they will feel my wrath. Every time someone mentions an activity to do or place to go, my question is, "Yes, but is there a pool?" My preggie body is now obsessed with floating weightlessly (while eating raspberry danishes). So, maybe I'll add "pool" to the checklist of necessary New York arrangements.

Time to nap. Time to pee again for the 50th time today. Time to adjust a baby's feet out of my liver.

Parenthood.