I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel tired and worn out, discouraged. I am ready to stop being pregnant. I'm tired of feeling sick; I'm tired of being slow. I'm getting impatient to meet my baby, but I'm also dreading adding another little responsibility to my crowded days.

I just want to yell loudly at somebody and then cry like the world has ended.

Or better yet, I would like to go on vacation to a beautiful deserted island where I can laze around in a hammock all day and sip icy lemonade from a pretty glass. An island where I can have servants (so much for the deserted part) who bring me delicious food, and I don't have to worry about the sugar or the carbs involved. Where I can read books and write stories all day or all night until my brain is finally relaxed. Where I can find some peace and quiet without running after a tantrum-throwing two year old, or arguing with a teenager who already knows everything there can possibly be to know in this world. I don't want to move or think or talk until I'm all sorted out inside.

There is no reason for these strange feelings that I can tell. Other than hormones, I guess.

Nasty little hormones!