You didn't really fok off, did you?

I hope not. Unless I meant you to.

But that's complicated.

So.

While I was fuming over people and their sometimes poorly chosen words regarding our situation, or, as some of you suggested, elaborately telling everyone to fuck off and leave me the fuck alone in my fucking happiness...

We interrupt this politically incorrect sentence to bring you some more of the current tone before moving on to the actual point of this here post that will hopefully contain a little less swearing and a little more strawberries and cream and sweet baby smells (although not all in one bowl):   

To be fair, I was only telling some of the people who've recently been in contact with me to fuck off and stop making me feel bad in a time that is supposed to be the happiest of my life and to maybe get a fucking grip on their 'poor you's and learn about Down syndrome instead. I did note I was only fucking pissed off about the communications that were seriously about supporting me in my fucking time of need. Gah. (I hope this doesn't count as Fuck Off - the Sequel, although I kind of see how it might. Hmmm. Also, who can guess the baby's first word?)

Ok. There. Whatevs. Moving on. End of interruption.

...it seems that I accidentally caught up to some milestones in my blogging as well as my real worldly (not the MTV-kind, but the kind that's not scripted and doesn't revolve around untalented weirdos other than me) life:

:: And I find it oddly fitting that I, completely by accident, managed to tell everyone to fuck off and leave me the fuck alone in my 300th post. Ah Universe, you wily creature you.

:: I also find it fitting that I'd be really mean after receiving exactly 3500 comments, none of which have ever really been mean. In any way. Although, there was the one about me writing trash, but that just inspired a whole frikken post out of me and made me take a picture of the crap that was actually in my trash can, so whatever mean there ever was in the comment was gloriously cancelled out. Correct?

:: I have gained exactly 20 kilos and the doctor is horrified. At every appointment, shortly after weighing me, he threatens me with some alien invention called pre-eclampsia (I think it's from Star Trek originally) until he takes my (scarily low) blood pressure and then we just kind of chat about me driving like a maniac and cutting him off on the way to the parking lot.

:: While in bed rest, because of the fucking placenta growing all old and calcified way too early, I have watched exactly 9 complete seasons of America's Next Top Model, and all I'm left with is this simple statement: "Tyra's no Oprah. Oh no she ain't." Great to know there's some substance to my life.

:: On average I manage about 10 pages of What to Expect When You're Expecting by Heidi Murkoff before I have to throw up from 'Jeez, does she think I've never ever seen a baby before in my life?', 'Oh Lord, how cutesy-wutesy is just too fucking cute', 'Not. Ever. Doing. That. Ever.' or 'You do understand that we didn't just recently upgrade the operation from storks to vaginas, right?'

:: On Friday I will have had this particular bun (You know, the one with one more chromosome than your bun. Ha!) in my fleshy oven for exactly 2 whole trimesters, the second of which, as far as I've been told by nauseating literature and some peeps who may have actually had children without feeling like they should write nauseating books about it, should have been the easiest of the complete set of 3. However, as I threw up my morning coffee while I was brushing my teeth this morning (I'm afraid the toothbrush might just disintegrate from all the stomach acid that has recently come its way) I strongly disagreed. But that's just me. I have no nauseating books to my name. And only two of the three trimesters.

:: The times I have sworn I'll never use one of those disgustingly pink, flowery, and completely pointless  headbands on my daughter to make sure everyone can see she's a girl: at least 105. The times I'll actually use one of those disgustingly pink, flowery, and completely pointless headbands to make sure everyone can see my bald child (if she's anything like her mama, she'll be five until any actual hair begins to sprout) is in fact a girl: probably most days.

:: Amount of discussions I've had on normal baby stuff until now: 3. Y'all, she might have Down syndrome, but she'll also keep me up all night every night, have colic, bite my nipples to shreds, poop purpley stuff, vomit all over the only dress that'll fit me five minutes before the guests arrive, hate having her diaper changed, and start teething much earlier than anyone expected exactly when we're on our way to Europe, directly over Greenland, scarily low on sleep and with absolutely nothing for anyone to bite on.

Yah.

  Not an actual baby. Just something Mexico has to offer.

Now, tell me honestly. Did you really fuck off?