Late Friday afternoon, Jason IMed me with the news that Carbon Leaf, our favorite band in the world (and who are also "our" band and ours alone), will be playing at D.C.'s 9:30 Club in early September. The 9:30 Club, while awesome, is smoky, insanely crowded and standing-room only. And everytime I've gone there somebody has spilled a beer on me.
So I told Jason that I probably wouldn't be up for attending a concert there when I am, you know, NINE MONTHS PREGNANT.
And within five minutes, I was sobbing hysterically.
And typing things like this:
I HATE BEING PREGNANT.
THIS IS TOO HARD.
AND IT'S ONLY GOING TO GET HARDER ONCE HE'S HERE AND WHAT IF I HATE THAT PART TOO?
WHAT IF I DON'T LOVE HIM?
WHAT IF HE DOESN'T LOVE ME?
I DON'T DESERVE FOR HIM TO LOVE ME BECAUSE LOOK AT THE AWFUL THINGS I AM SAYING AND HE CAN HEAR ME AND KNOWS THAT I'M A HORRIBLE MOTHER ALREADY.
(At this point Jason reminded me that since we were instant messaging, the baby probably had no idea what I was typing, also, did I know I had Caps Lock on?)
(No, he said more comforting-like things than that, although secretly I think he is scared to death of Me and My Batshit Mood Swings right now.)
So then I spent the next hour hiding in my office with the door closed while I tried to 1) stop crying already, and 2) clean up my mascara with some napkins I found in a drawer.
There is no point to this entry other than to say: the anxiety level, she is running a mite high right now.
In other news, Jason spackled some holes in the walls of the baby's room. Who, by the way, we're pretty sure almost definitely has a name now. And I did some laundry, reorganized the bathroom cabinets and put all our CDs in alphabetical order. Also, Ceiba peed on my Boppy Pregnancy Comfort Support Pillow.