A wicked case of the grumples.

Don't let that smirk deceive you.

I've come to the conclusion that if there is one thing that I really excel at—I mean, that I really really just seem to be a natural at—it would have to be complaining. About being pregnant. Or maybe just complaining in general?

I have a gift, friends.

My I-wonder-if-I'm-having-a-heart-attack heart burn came back, and the gagging is back too—all in a week's work. I'm abnormally clumsy, forgetful, and so insanely tired. And dang-it-all, all of my (two) maternity shirts that I still don't mind wearing have stains on the tummy, since the tum is all up in everyone's business these days. But what really set me over the edge is that miserable head cold that Clara caught came tromping along over to me, and boy howdy if I'm not ticked off about it. Such dastardly coughing and hacking away can't even seem to make itself useful by bringing on labor. (I know, I know Tace—not 'til you're through with your visit...) And just last night Tom mentioned that he was coming down with it too. Be gone—ye evil bug!

And finally? My marble went down the drain and I have to wear my railroad train pajamas. I hate my railroad train pajamas.

You get the idea. This past week has been a grumpfest, and I'd like to apologize to humanity for taking part it in so wholeheartedly. Believe it or not, I actually am trying my hardest to not be grumpy about, oh, everything. It's like I always tell Clara—crankiness is not becoming of her.

But I'm still two weeks from my due date, so heaven help us all. (However—there's been talk of an inducement. Stand by!) And the real amazing thing? Once that cute little baby is in my arms this will have alllllll been worth it.

Thank heavens-to-Betsy.