9 months...and counting
I'm one deep breath away from a hailstorming, late pregnancy breakdown. I decide to take Frankie to the park because this option is maybe barely better than any other. I'm too far into exhaustion and discontent to feel any real hope, but I am officially, and mind-bleachingly, bored with my own whine. I feel like Bill Murray in "What About Bob?" when he finally gets himself onto the bus and asks the person next to him, "Hi, can you knock me out? Just punch me in the face..."