Sleeping at night has reached its peak: near impossible proportions of achievement thanks to some delicately cruel combinations rearing their ugly heads. I should take great solace that this is the last pregnancy for ole Asher Mills...enjoy it while I can, blah blah. We sure as heck aren't going for no. 4, in case any of you are wondering. DONE. But it was icing on the cake to learn I gained SEVEN POUNDS (in five weeks) since my last appointment yesterday. Guess I should lay off the peanut butter cups.

A weak bladder, a form-tackling-of-the-organs prone baby, and beyond throbbing muscles. Everywhere. Did I mention my back hurts? Throw in a little burning of the esophagus just for good time's sake after my latest mexican craving, and I can kiss the night goodbye. I'm up for a party that will put my all night college overhaul sessions from the days of yore to shame.

I woke four times alone the other night, just to waddle to the loo. I shifted slowly out of my sit-and-sleep-because-of-reflux position, and I was lucky, once again, just to make it on time. I almost pulled an oops- my-water-broke just for Jamin in the middle of the bathroom floor. I roll over on my side, and baby mills 3 finds the exact spot where the most pressure is being exerted, only to compliment it with a jabbing of its bony limbs. I guess I should look at it like an internal pressure point massage. Awesome.

I think I may spend the remainder of this pregnancy in bed. I can hire someone to come and roll me around in my pile of misery. They can sponge bathe me. The pinnacle of utmost degrading laziness when executed by choice. Maybe my mom can keep an eye on the kids. I can ring a little bell and someone can bring me my next dosage of double fudge brownie ice cream (topped with whipped cream) while they rub my feet and check my walrus rolls for sores. Digression.

My situation is merely complicated by the fact that, in sleep, Jamin morphs into a circus performer where he wrestles man eating pythons and crocodiles. I lull myself into the delicate balance of consciousness and the oh so desired lala land of REM, when the hubs decides its time to kick his act into high gear. He tackles his latest predator, sometimes accomplishing complete turns in the bed. I'm quite impressed with his level of coordination even in sleep. He's got skills, I must say. He even yells. I'm lucky if that isn't accompanied by sudden outbursts of stifled snorts and snores. Doesn't really help with the sleeping status. Sometimes I wonder if his nighttime aggression are his fantasies of murdering me. Wouldn't blame him.

I prop, I plop, I roll, I moan. Nothing helps. The fluffing of pillows, the changing of positions, and the awkward shifting of belly to body ratios...I'm in big trouble. I think these muscles may be permanently stretched. FOREVER. I have two more months. Technically, ten weeks. I find myself seeing how often I can cheat by lying flat on my back, until some part of my body falls asleep and I come to my senses, realizing that my baby is missing a vital amount of blood supply. Oops.

Of course I complained like this to my OB. He merely nodded his head and chuckled a bit, explaining that because I never recovered from nursing Emerson and went right back into prego mode again, my body is like that of saran wrap attempting to hold up its third bowling ball. Never retracting.

Stretched ligaments to the max...Check.

Ashley looks like an evolving gorilla when standing naked in front of the mirror...Check.

Whiney blog no. 5554...check.

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flea market treasures part5554

It's been one of those weeks. I won't lie. One of those woe-is-me-what-the-crap-was-I-thinking-having-kids-type of weeks. One of those completely mislead I-could-be-an-up-and-coming-designer-in-NYC-but-I-went-for-my-MRS-degree, I chose desperate housewives suburbia heaven and I'm-freaking-lousy-at-it-kind-of-weeks. {Hey, I said mislead. Let me dream!}

Then, after that realization, another wave of Oh-my-lord-please-save-me-I'm-about-to-have-another-baby-I-will probably-leave-attached-to-the-car-Griswald-style-because-I-now-officially-have-more-than-I-know-what-to-do-with, kind of panic attack. Because you know. It totally compliments that kind of week.

I've cleaned up vomit, atrociously dirty diapers, lysoled the house continually from a strep throat infestation, and then cried/laughed like a lunatic when I realized today I haven't left the house since SUNDAY, and my poor husband who I have snapped at repeatedly, mentioned "You've been little moody lately."

"It's SOOO HARD!" I wailed in a classic guilt laden response. REALLY? YA THINK!??? {It's a miracle he's still married to me-BLESS him.}

I've bargained with Emerson who currenly has a death grip on my arm to let me put her down. For a second. Without a high pitched scream. A REPEATEDLY high pitched scream. The kid's a banshee.

I've perused the Martha Stewart site for new craft ideas in my short breaks. My version of letting lose and keeping my finger firm on the pulse of society.

My perspective on reality, to say the least, is a bit skewed.

SUNDAY, people!

I gave Aiden five spankings alone, in a row yesterday (my strong willed child-yes, we spank when warranted-lets get past it, shall we?) he had an option to sit on the couch for time out for shoving his sister (twice) and he said no. So I spanked him. He had a choice. He says no a bit much. (read: all the time)

He then said NO again. Spank. NO! spank. NO! spank. SERIOUSLY? I'm not talking about little spanks here. I was going for the gusto to make my point, and my hand was hurting. Skin to skin. Red bootay. I then gave up, because of course I started to feel bad. It obviously wasn't working. I picked him up off the floor (still screaming NOOOO!) and PITCHED HIM onto the couch (non child abuse with a neck fracture style). He stayed until I had a peaceful conversation with him later regarding the use of the word no and shoving his sister.

When all was calm, I heard munching coming from the laundry room. Munching. Emerson. Dog food. Multiple peices. Chewing. I let her, until she decided she was ready to spit it out.

It's been one of those weeks.

And then today I got a flyer in the mail from Piper Lime, to top it all off. You know Piper Lime. That cute lil optimistically overpriced shoe company the owners of Gap/BR/& Old Navy have launched. And I realized, while looking at said flyer and therefore plummeting deeper into my own woe-is-me-I-suck-at-life-state, that I couldn't tell you what shoes were in style if you PAID me a million on the spot. The only reason I saw was because they sent a FLYER in the mail. To my house.

I used to shop for shoes. A-la-Carrie style. All the time. I was a shoe museum. And I can't tell you the last pair I bought. Maybe a pair of boots last fall? I don't care who you are. That's pretty bad. And I find myself resenting people who still shop Carrie style. Guess you can say my priorities have changed. Ever so resentfully.

So I'm writing on my usual blogging day to let you know I have nothing to write about, other than how out of touch with the real world I am. Sometimes {read: MOST OF THE TIME} being a mom sucks. {kidding} Sometimes being a wife does too. And life. Did I mention life can suck? But that doesn't mean I don't love it. It just means I'm a little overwhelmed with hormones, lack of Zoloft in my system, and surges of disparity at my dwindling supply of dusty shoes shoved in my closet because I am once again having a who the heck is going to don THOSE heels while balancing THREE CHILDREN kind of moment. And what that symbolically means I have become. Am I a dusty old shoe?

It's been the kind of week to send the most stable of women into yet another identity crisis, just when I thought I had it all figured out.

I usually regard myself as stable.

I'm not very eloquent today. {when am I ever?} This is the part where you chime in and make me feel better. Love you all. Have a great weekend. I'm going to soup up on some caffeine so I can get my nasty house clean, AFTER I put the crying babes to bed.

{No. I won't throw them in there...}