My Ranch Walkout pregnancy has now officially transitioned into Full Blown Labor. 

The pain comes in waves and ebbs, and I don’t even want to think about what will happen next.  Just when I think I’m doing a little better, a new pain hits. And then another.  When is this going to end?  Where’s my pretty baby?

What the  hell was I thinking?

Back in the dark ages (early 1980’s)…we actually experienced labor.  Seeing as how our OB/GYNS had us all brainwashed into believing that All Natural Childbirth - with nothing for pain, not even an aspirin - and the 6-week Lamaze classes to train our bodies to relax in the middle of bone-cracking labor and control the crushing, irresistible urge to push with polite Hee Hee exhalations – would make life perfect for us and even better for our babies.

“They’re not labor pains, they’re labor contractions.  If you think of them that way, your discomfort will be so much less!  Just breathe through the contractions and relax!”  

Biggest load of crap since “This hurts me more than it hurts you.” 

Lamaze was supposed to help us shoot out baby geniuses like otters down a water slide.  Most of us ended up grunting and swearing and trying to dismember anything or anyone that came within a 5-foot radius.   

Now days, they give you the good stuff.  They hook you up with so many pain killers, you can do your nails, call your girlfriend on the cell phone and push out a baby all at the same time.  Even the baby comes out smiling.  

I need the good stuff.  And I need it NOW. 

We made an offer on the house on Sunday.  You know, the house with the road that I said the  melodramatic goodbye to last blog?  

We (I) made a page-long laundry list of things we’d like changed, including pendant lights over the bar, gas hookups for dryer, stove, and changing out the electric fireplace to gas, dollar allowances for a new gas stove and fridge, a humidifier on the furnace, plus 7 trees to block the view of that road.  They agreed to everything, except the trees need to be deciduous, instead of pines. Ok.  Now, we’re (Tom) dickering over the last $10,000.   

I feel sick.   

I have patience for a lot of things.  Not this.   

Not even staying on top of sneaky, mouthy teenagers gave me the guts I need to sweat this out. 

We spent another Saturday afternoon last weekend with Bill the Realtor, going from builder to builder, looking at the option of building a house similar to this one.  Pretty hard to come up with a house like this, on a lot and location like this one, and still come in under the number we want…especially with a geothermal heat/air system (Tom’s GOTTA HAVE), which adds about $15,000 to the price of a house. 

So, the deal is better than we originally thought. (That’s what I say.) One we can work with…BIG  maybe. (That’s what Tom says.) 

And we found out that the road that’s going through might not be as big or busy as we thought.  At least not as long as we’re there…or maybe ‘til we’re so old we won’t be able to hear traffic anymore.  It will connect to a residential area…nothing commercial for years to increase the traffic.

 Ok.  But…  

I’m edgy.  I knew it was bad last night when we were supposed to be enjoying American Idol together and I had to fight off the urge to jump on Tom and bend his pinkie finger back and choke the life out of him (very much like I did when Kate was crowning) and call him bad, bad names. 

His “Tell them we’ll walk away from this deal…” mantra is being drown out by my I WANT THAT HOUSE AND I WANT IT NOW! brat. 

Oy. 

I phoned in a counter offer to Bill after Idol was over. 

Now, we wait… 

Hee…Hee…Hee…Hee…Hee…Hee…Hee…Hee…Hee…