Do you smell something?

That's what Amos said to me last night, a gleam in his eye, after he had spent some time under the dining room table doing his business.  He isn't fully potty trained yet, and his favorite spot for the big moment is to grunt under the table.  He ran over to me, put his hands purposefully on the side of the couch, and said as if we are playing "Blues Clues", "Do youuuu smell something?"


Indeed.  I did.  I didn't need a paw print over his britches to figure it out.  It was completely hilarious and foul, and this is my kid.

I figured out why he said it.  First, he is awesome and has our senses of humor.  Many times after Amos gets the business out of his body, I am the first to smell it because I have the curse of the pregnant nose.  I can smell what my neighbors are doing with their windows closed.  I know what you ate for breakfast -- in Zimbabwe.  I see people with bad teeth and I recoil at what I suspect will hit my face at any moment, which isn't entirely fair to the dentally-challenged, but it is what it is.  

Going to New York City for a few days was a complete assault on my being.  We would stop at a street corner, and I would grasp Phil's hand and ask, "Are we literally standing inside a tank of human feces right now?"  I couldn't fathom that there was any other explanation for the odors smothering my nasal passages.  Every puddle (which was on every corner) was a sewage fest just waiting for me to take in its acrid delights.  We exited our hotel to walk to breakfast, and I gave Phil a rundown of all odors I encountered every few feet.  "Fish delivery.  Last night's Kim Chi special.  Homeless urine.  Drunk tourist urine.  Yes, there's a difference.  Now there's a scent of rotten fruit stomped by smelly feet.  Oh, because there's a fruit stand with a guy without his shoes.  Dead bird.  Wait, stop!  I smell one blooming gardenia up there on the fifth floor!"

So, really, having me around right now is totally fun if you want to identify mysterious and offensive unpleasantries.

Anyhoo, like I said, I know why Amos said it to me.  When I catch a whiff of his surprise, I tend to yell out, "DO YOU SMELL THAT?!"  Which, I admit, is totally passive-aggressive behavior in which I am attempting to get Phil to change a diaper while I recoil under a blanket.  My son has caught on to this, and now he's decided it will be a fun game to bring the odor closer to me, to help me figure out that, yes, something is definitely rotten in the state of Denmark.  He's very helpful.

Just another snippet of my life as a pregnant woman.  A very, very pregnant woman.

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.