This is me, about to explode.

So. A while back I signed on for some "Future Moms" program with my insurance company that essentially means I allow a nurse to call me three times over the course of this pregnancy and tell me stuff I already read. Also, Ihave to see the dentist. For the annoyance, they waive my hospital copay.

Today was one of my phone call days. I'm only active in the convo for the first ten minutes, and then things disintegrate into the nurse telling me a bunch of stuff I know ("to keep your energy up, eat protein at every meal and snack!" "the doctor will check your blood pressure at this appointment!" (it is checked at every appointment.) During my "active talk" time, the nurse asked if I had a carseat (yes) had it installed (um, no.) knew how to install it (I know the basics, and it comes with instructions, right?)

And then she started rattling on and on ("try to visualize your contractions like a waaaaave"), and I thought, "Imma open thishere box and get out the instructions and read them so this 45 minutes isn't a complete waste of time. Also, it will keep me from laughing at her."

So I opened the box that was supposed to contain my brand-new super-awesome deluxe plaid Eddie Bauer travel system (side!-impact! tested!) to discover a used, filthy, BROKEN graco stroller.

I am losing my mind. I've been promised by a chick at Target that I can return it, but here's the problem I keep coming back to: even if it was the correct stroller/carseat combo, it was RETURNED. RETURNED SAFETY EQUIPMENT FOR A NEWBORN.

How is that even possible?

You know what I've got?

I've got a daughter who gets the hiccups a lot.

And they tickle. Which means that occasionally, I just start giggling because somebody's tickling me on the inside.

A lot.

Imma tell you a little something

about being pregnant in the South in the summer.

You don't need to tell me it's hot. I know it's hot. I am currently carrying around my own personal heater who kicks.

Or, for an analogy that will make sense to those of you who have never been pregnant, imagine an extra twenty pounds on you. Yup. That's a lot of padding.

Here's what I want: I want a totally empty pool. I want to get into water up to my neck and just stand there. Forever, maybe, or for at least an hour. Maybe I'll walk around. Maybe I'll just stand there.

You know. Chilling.