So I had another tear-filled, hormone-fueled emotional meltdown.

After a really long and stressful week of staying in the office late at night (and working during the previous weekend), I accomplished very little at home and then promptly woke up sick on Thursday. I had to go to work anyway to finish up the issue of the magazine. I got to leave early, but of course as soon as I got home I tackled the nursery. And that's when the waterworks came, because I still have so much to do and the room doesn't even look like a room where a baby would hang out and I just need someone to give me some fucking time to do these things!

Anyway, I started wailing to my husband, who pointed out that we have accomplished a superhuman amount in a short time. And it's true, we have. There's just still so much to do. And I would not have been crying if I weren't so very, very pregnant and uncomfortable and worn out.

Man, I really hope I don't go all Brooke Shields after the baby is born. My doctor told me that prior to having the baby, I should make an appointment with a therapist, just so I have someone on speed dial in case I do suffer from postpartum depression. It's actually excellent advice, and of course I haven't done it because I have no fucking time.