Don't call us, we'll call you

I say this without any desire to sound like a bitchy asshole, though I'm sure to some that's exactly how it will come across. But I can't talk any more about how I'm feeling these days. I've received so many lovely emails and phone calls from friends and relatives whose motives are nothing but pure and who are excited about the baby's impending arrival and how I'm doing. But the truth is, I feel like dogshit and I don't want to talk about it anymore. I've got nausea and heartburn, I can't sleep at night because I'm so uncomfortable, my feet and hands are so swollen that when I do sleep I wake up unable to feel my fingers because they have gone numb from the nerve pressure, my abdominal muscles ache and pull every time I switch positions, and my bowels are in an uproar. I'm so excited to meet my son, but to be honest, he has worn out his welcome in my body and I just want him to get the fuck out. When I go into labor and give birth, I will let everyone know, but until then, I have nothing new to report. If you want to call me and talk about the Red Sox-Indians series or how Friday Night Lights is the best show on TV or how awesome the New England Patriots are this season or the turmoil in Pakistan or what an idiot Britney Spears is, I'm all for it, but I can't talk about contractions or cervical effacement or anything like that anymore. Sorry.