Help! I’ve been overcome by a team of midwife bulldogs.
I can’t do anything in my own house anymore without being watched by at least one set of brown, bloodshot eyes. I’m being constantly monitored by anxious bulldogs and although they are well intentioned, they are truly clueless.
As I enter my 8th month of pregnancy, I have found my energy starting to wane. A month ago I could work a 10 hour day and come home and still have enough energy to make dinner, dishes, do 3 loads of laundry, walk the dogs, put away 3 loads of laundry and stay fully awake for an episode of Game of Throne (Hodor!). Now, when I get home from work, I enter the house like someone just dumped me out of a wheel barrow. I make grunting noises when I take off my now too-small shoes. I waddle. I’m usually short of breath. I start wearing my ever-so-comfortable maternity sweatpants at 6 PM. I chant, “BOOM! Ba-ba!” with every step I make. I’m definitely slowing down.
The bulldogs have taken notice of this. The bulldogs are concerned. And now every single thing I do in the house is a fucking family affair.
This week, the bulldogs have come to the conclusion that I need an assistant with everything I do. For example, almost every morning for the past week, as I stared blurry-eyed into my closet, trying to piece together a reasonable outfit for work, Mack stood by my side, also peering into my closet, staring at my clothes with me, pretending like he knew what he was doing.
The other morning, the whole fam damily was in the bathroom as I showered, including a half-asleep Hubs, trying to brush his teeth around two bulldogs laying on the bath mats, who were anxiously awaiting my grand exit from the shower. I contemplated ripping open the shower curtain with incredible zeal and doing my best sarcastic and naked “Ta Da!”, complete with jazz fingers for my audience. But eh, I didn’t. When I did open the curtain, they both averted their eyes. Peterbilt pretended to inspect the towel racks. Mack licked the side of the tub. My pregnant body is apparently too extreme for bulldogs.
Oh, but that’s not all.
Mack spends every waking moment tracking my whereabouts around the house. From the moment I get home from work, he’s following me around. When he loses track of me (which happens quite often with an almost deaf, 13yo bulldog) I can hear him looking for me, his toenails clacking on the hardwood floors, as he checks the kitchen, the office, then the bathroom and finally the bedroom where I’m laying in bed, getting my ugly eat on with a bucket mini brownies, watching back to back episodes of Restaurant Impossible on Netflix. There’s a lot of ugly they don’t tell you about before you get pregnant.
Peterbilt also wants constant tabs on my whereabouts and even puts my well-being ahead of his food, surprisingly.
The other day, the Hubs and I switched vehicles so he could take my Jeep in for an oil change. When Hubs got home, Peterbilt excitedly circled the Jeep numerous times in the garage, expecting my pregnant ass to roll and plop out of the SUV. Hubs said Pete was inconsolable for like 10 minutes and thoroughly inspected the Jeep and the garage until he finally gave up. All of this before he had a chance to be eat his beloved dinner.
It all started off very sweet but now it’s starting to be a burden. And it gets only worse as time goes by and my belly gets bigger.
In the past month or so, Mack has gone from sleeping downstairs on his beloved couch, to sleeping on a dog bed in the baby’s room, with a baby gate at the door, to now sleeping on the floor of our bedroom. Any attempt to separate him from me is met with loud, constant, belligerent, barking. And I can already tell where this is headed: he will want to sleep on our bed next. So I can get even less sleep.
Have you ever woken up to an audible bulldog fart at 3AM? It’s not funny. It’s not funny at all, actually. No, it’s putrid and the stench will rouse both Hubs and I from the deepest slumber, especially when that fart only has to travel 18 inches to get to your nose because Mack faces the door when he sleeps on the bed. Ass-to-face positioning always means a more concentrated poot. It’s bad enough I already wake up to every single fucking noise this house and its occupants emit during the overnight hours, let alone one of Mack’s face-melting farts.
There isn’t one thing that I’m able to do without supervision anymore and the lack of privacy is getting on my nerves. I always thought that my integrity would remain intact until labor, but the bulldogs constant interruption of even the most private moments is slowly chipping away at it.
With 8 weeks until the baby is estimated to arrive, I don’t have the heart to tell them that they will have to sit and wait at home when it’s time for me to go to the hospital. I may have to come up with some sort of lie…..or some sort of faux-Sarah decoy fashioned out of pillows for them to fuss over while I’m gone.