Forget wondering how I'm going to handle cleaning a baby girl's girly bits. At this point, my stomach is so big that I can barely keep my own clean. And wiping? Forget it. An impossible feat. Bring on the hose. Or the bidet.
Surely you're all familiar with the children's ditty There's A Hole In The Bucket. You know, the song that epitomizes why the majority of women think that the majority of men are idiots? I had to endure a version today that I've never heard before. It must've taken at least thirty minutes to get through the song. It was painful. Horribly, terribly painful. So I choose tonight to present you with a list of things that I'd rather do than listen to this version ever again in my natural lifetime.
Sit in a dark room filled with spiders and the stench of rotted fish.
Go through the rest of my pregnancy without the help of Tylenol PM at bedtime. (Yes, I'm one of those selfish mothers-to-be who would rather get a decent night of sleep than be drug-free during her pregnancy. If it makes me sleep/stop coughing/forget who I am for a little while, I'll take it.)
Stop eating ice cream.
Watch Stephen King's It by myself in a dark room filled with balloons and man-eating clowns.
Get pregnant again.