I’m pregnant

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…not with a baby! Jeez, you tell someone you’re pregnant and they immediately assume you mean you have a human growing in your uterus.

No worries here. I’m not going to give birth to another mini me anytime soon—or ever again. I shudder at the very thought of that. I mean, I don’t want the kids I’ve ALREADY birthed sometimes. What makes you think I would want another one? They’re not that cute!

So anyway, as I was saying, I’m pregnant…with overflowing emotions right now. I’m tired—scratch that—I’m exhausted. I’ve had the same headache for 3 weeks now. I’m fatigued, I’m weepy, and most days I haven’t the energy to do even the most menial of tasks. Hold the phone, it DOES sound like I’m pregnant with a baby. And I might even think it’s a possibility if A. Tommy hadn’t had a vasectomy THE DAY AFTER ETHAN WAS BORN!; or B. I wasn’t on my period right now (too much information?).

No, not pregnant. Maybe I have mono? Maybe I’m dying of some weird disease that makes you think you’re pregnant? Maybe the universe is about to exact its inevitable revenge against me?

Or maybe, I’m just tired. I do have four kids after all. And those four kids are involved in endless activities. During the day I might have time to sew that baby blanket or work a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle, but come 2:30 I’m a slave to the people I once considered to be absolutely adorable. I mean I used to think these little creatures were little petit fours of ooey goodness that I hardly deserved. Now it’s clear, I’m getting exactly what I had coming to me. Call it the boomerang effect, or Karma. Whatever it is, it’s fucking annoying. And now I’m up to my earlobes in shit—which translates to soccer, field hockey, art class, gymnastics, and ballet.

I actually went to the doctor 2 days ago and had them do blood work to see if what afflicts me is real or just a figment of my overworked and underpaid imagination. I haven’t gotten the results of the blood tests yet, but I imagine they’ll tell me that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me, followed with a hearty have a nice day, to which I will follow up with “suck it”—after I hang up the phone, of course.

I’m afraid my pregnancy is only the result of having too many things to do, places to be, people to please. Think I’m complaining? Well, hell yeah I’m complaining. Are you new? This is what I do. Deal with it. You’re just pissed that I’m not REALLY pregnant and you can’t point your fingers and laugh at me. Please, I’m not that big a schmuck.

I calculated the number of hours per week I’m in the car driving the crumb snatchers around. You want to know what that number is? 42 (42!) That’s 2,184 hours a year!

So really, it’s no wonder I’m tired.

Yesterday afternoon around 3 I was starving. So I called Mama’s pizza up the street and ordered 2 medium pizzas (1 sausage, 1 half pepperoni, half cheese), 2 dinner salads, and extra ranch dressing (we Texans eat our pizza with ranch dressing—you gotta try it). Then I stopped at the convenience store and picked up a 6-pack of beer. I went home, piled 3 slices on a paper plate, popped open a cold beer, sat on my bed and inhaled every bit of it. I had exactly 30 minutes before I had to be somewhere, so there was no time to waste. Just then I heard the back door open and it was Tommy. He saw the pizza buffet laid out on the counter and looked at me, puzzled.

“Are you having a late lunch? Or an early dinner?”

I tossed the empty beer bottle in the recycle bin and put the rest in the fridge for later. “I was starving, so I got a little afternoon snack.”

“Wow. Does this happen a lot? Maybe I should start coming home early more often.”

Please God, let him be joking.

“No, not all the time. Sometimes it’s cookies and milk. Sometimes it’s nachos. Sometimes it’s a happy meal from mickey d’s.”

His eyes widened. “You eat like this all the time?”

I guffawed and said, “Have you just met me? Of course I eat like this all the time. Why do you think I work out like a fiend?”

He lowered his head and then got a weird, worried look on his face. “Are you pregnant?”

I picked up my keys off the counter and walked towards the back door. He was watching me, waiting for my answer. I opened the door and yelled over my shoulder, “yes, but not with a baby.”