Are you in your third trimester of pregnancy and going totally insane? Did you friend come stay the weekend with her one year and three year old who shrieked, tantrumed, and bratted until the wee hours every night, causing you to bang your head repeatedly against the wall screaming IDIOT IDIOT IDIOT quietly to yourself, bemoaning the urge to reproduce that struck you eight months ago? Do you mourn your flat stomach like a dead favorite uncle? Do you dread leaking fluid from multiple orifices more than labor pain? Do you make pitiful attempts to dress like your old self in your black maternity tank top only to gape in horror at the gothic watermelon belly that stares back at you from your bathroom mirror? Did you refuse to register before your co-workers threw you a shower and are now drowning in 985,324 ruffled pink 3-6 months outfits that you will burn before you ever dress your fetus in them? Do you make valiant attempts not to waddle at the expense of severe back pain? Do the Noe Valley baby jogger moms scare the living crap out of you? Would you sell your soul for a vodka martini?
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If the answers to any of the above questions are a resounding YES, then perhaps I am the sarcastic, black-humored, witty, anti-everything babys' r' us pregnancy companion that you dread sitting next to in Lamaze class. I haven't decorated my nursery yet (and when I do I'll be damned if there is gonna be any ducks in bonnets or winnie the poos in evidence), my husband is scared of me and thinks I will be a horrible mother, and now that I am done with work for the summer, I spend all my time doing construction work on my decaying TIC and then take great pleasure in horrifying my mother by telling her all about it, in detail, complete with descriptions of me climbing up ladders and breathing in paint fumes (kidding).
I fear I am the only pregnant person like me in existence. Am I?