What can I say about week 30? That I had a meltdown? That I can feel myself getting dumber by the day? That the elephant-sized underwear that I refused to wear at week 18 is now a bit SNUG? That I can't stand the way I smell and am constantly showering or reapplying body spray, deodorant and perfume? That the jerk who parks in the parking lot where I work and drives the Infiniti GT 35 is one more double-parking day away from having a very nasty note stuck to his window explaining that while I understand his car is way better than every other car in the WORLD, and he doesn't want any door dings, the lines are not there merely as a suggestion and unless he wants an unbalanced pregnant woman jumping him like a fat kid on a cupcake, he needs to shape up and fly right because I am THIS CLOSE to losing it.
That was nice to get out of my system. Where were we?
Ah, yes.... the meltdown. One of a couple, I believe. But I'll just fill you in on the one that mortified me. As in: MORE.... wait for it.... TI.... wait for it some more.... FIED.
A few weeks ago, Benny and I decided that we'd just have to bite the bullet and purchase a nice changing table combo unit for Tweet's room. This was after hitting yard sales and every cheap furniture store we could find to no avail. The problem for us was three-fold.
#1 - We wanted to the changing table to match the crib... which we thought would be easy. We. Thought. Wrong. Cherry espresso isn't so much a primary color. Who. Knew?
#2 - Benny and I are on the tall end of life, and knew that we needed a taller changing table for both of us to feel comfortable and not throw out our backs. Yes... both of us. Have I mentioned that Benny's got a lot of pregnancy sympathy pains? I suspect this will bleed over to the actual raising of the baby.
#3 - We wanted a changing table combo unit so that Tweet could have her own dresser when she got older. We also wanted to make sure that while she's only able to poop, cry and eat, she's be sufficiently spoiled with the nicest piece of furniture in the house.
And, as we soon discovered, the only place in this world where all three of our demands could be met was the Place Where Paychecks Go To Die.
I know, I know! We, too, were shocked that we couldn't find something at the Center of the Universe! There goes our theory that if Costco doesn't have it, we dont' need it.
Anyway, we ordered a combo unit from Babies-R-Us on a Sunday, and the next Saturday, they called to tell us that it was ready to be picked up. Benny and I were thrilled because that meant that we'd be able to have the nursery ready for when Bart, Helen and the boys stopped by to visit. But, when they rolled out the furniture, we were surprised (and, yes, a little disheartened) to see that instead of our beautiful dresser/changing table, it was instead a six-foot dresser. And while I mentioned that both Benny and I are tall... a six-foot dresser? Not really feasible for changing a fussy baby. Even I know this.
Obviously, they had ordered the wrong piece of furniture and as I held back tears from my stupid, stupid hormones, they reassured us that they would get the correct changing table for us and it would be ready the following week.
The next Saturday, they called us to inform us that the item had arrived and we could come pick it up, so we braved the 80 degree weather and headed back down. When the clerk went to the back to get it, Benny cracked-wise about the previous mistake: "How mad would you be if they ordered the wrong one again?"
I pseudo-laughed and think I said something about losing my mind... but I can't be sure because right then they wheeled out THE SIX-FOOT DRESSER.
All of the remaining working synapses in my brain went off at once. I do remember saying: "No way... NO WAY.... NO. WAY!!!" to the poor clerk pulling the dresser. I also remember her eyes getting big and the blood draining from her face. Personally, I don't blame her since I've seen myself in the mirror at 30 weeks. Add an angry face and I'm your worst nightmare if you work at Babies-R-Us.
I also remember that I tried to say something else, although nothing but a bunch of gibberish came out and I finally had to just turn away before I bit the poor girls head off.
And yes... believe me when I echo your sentiments that IT'S JUST A DRESSER. I get it. I do. But right then? It was the Holy Grail. And we were once again stifled on our quest.
Luckily, cooler heads (Benny's) prevailed and he politely asked the clerk if maybe that dresser was the one from last week and if there, maybe, wasn't another dresser back there?? One that wouldn't make his wife's brain explode all over the floor here at the register and cause a completely. unnecessary. scene?
Turns out, the clerk just hadn't checked the numbers and had only seen the name on the box... and ours was still on the dresser from last week. She went back and wheeled out the correct dresser. Or, rather, had someone ELSE wheel out the correct dresser. Because I had just made a complete ass of myself and she'd rather not face me again.
To say that I was mortified at my behavior would be putting it lightly. I apologized profusely to all of the employees who witnessed the meltdown and asked if they would please tell the clerk that I had yelled out that I'm really not a yeller and could not be more embarrassed at my behavior. And please tell her that if she wants, I'll name the baby after her. What's her name? Oh... maybe I'll just bring her a Frosty from Wendy's. Would that be okay?
Benny and I left and headed home with our new booty, excited to get it into the nursery. On the way, neither one of us discussed "The Incident". Perhaps he knew I was too humiliated to even laugh about it at the time. It wasn't until the next day that I could finally actually bring it up in a conversation with my parents as we were heading to Babies-R-Us so they could see me drool over a $700 rocking chair.
Yes... you read right... SEVEN. HUNDRED. BONES. Cuz that's how I roll. After having sat in it, nothing else will do. And since we all know that we'll never pull the trigger on it, I've already made plans to breastfeed the baby once a day down at Babies-R-Us... just to enjoy the experience on a $700 rocking chair.
(Side note: Babies-R-Us should be ashamed because it's NOT really Babies-R-Us, now, is it? It's more like Babies-R-Only-Those-Who-Can-Drop-$700-On-A Rocking-Chair.)
Anyway, I digress. As I regaled my family with my bit of pregnancy hysteria, Benny tried to downplay The Incident and did what he could to make me feel less of a crazed lunatic.
"You know, sweetie... it's Babies-R-Us. They deal with crazy pregnant women all the time. I bet they even have a board in the back with pregnant meltdown stories. They'll just add you to the list."
Yea... for some reason, doesn't REALLY make me feel better. Maybe it was the crazy. pregnant. woman. reference?
So, in a nutshell, that was week 30. Not only a great example of a meltdown, but also of me getting dumber because I lost the power of speech and couldn't think logically that this may have just been a simple mistake. Add to that the snugger fitting elephantwear and you've got yourself a ticking time bomb. Satisfied only by bloodshed or some spaghetti squash. Whatever I have on hand.
Benny and I are both hoping that week 31 turns out a lot better than week 30, but you never know.
Tweet had a good week, though. And really, that's all that matters. She's been tumbling around in there and at least once-a-day, I can count on a case of the hiccups. Which is just about as adorable as a panda hugging a puppy.