Bio Blurb and Blog Summary: Rita spent five years battling infertility, which - once conquered - has led to the rather frenzied output of three sons in four years. Now she can't decide whether she's richly blessed or stone-cold crazy. But Rita does know this much: her household is overrun with testosterone, and she spends far too much time schlepping around in her pajamas. She has vowed to someday bring sexy back and get a life. Until then, she blogs about her lack of both sexiness and social engagements - and, despite it all, her love for the little boys that have bestowed upon her the coveted title of Mommy.

I don’t care if it IS my third pregnancy: like most expectant mothers, I’m obsessed with knowing what’s going on with the impending fetus – and that means religiously Googling every week to find out about each exciting new development. (That first poop may not be pleasant in a diaper, but I sure am proud to hear that my baby boy now has the ability to manufacture it.) Lucky for me, and for every other mommy-to-be on the Internet, there’s no shortage of websites designed to keep us up-to-date on baby’s development (and what to expect ourselves – which, for me, is back fat that looks like boobs and varicose veins in oddly uncomfortable places).

Today, though, I couldn’t help but be a little irritated by something I read on one of those websites. Right under “34 weeks pregnant,” it said, “… if all goes well, you'll be waiting for another six weeks. So don't drive yourself crazy, use this time to enjoy being alone, with friends and with your partner.”

That’s all fine and dandy if it’s your first pregnancy – if you CAN be “alone, with friends and with your partner.” But what about those of us who already have children, and thus have nearly forgotten what it’s like to pee without an audience, let alone spend a substantial amount of time doing whatever the heck we want? Did you forget about us, O Internet Oracle? What are we supposed to do with the last six weeks?

Oh yeah: drive ourselves (and everybody else) crazy. Wake up a bajillion times a night because we’re uncomfortable and have to pee, only to be summoned from the bed at the crack of dawn by the demands of the offspring outside the uterus. Waddle awkwardly after a child when “No. No. I SAID NOOOO!” doesn’t work from a sitting position. Fantasize about giving birth just for the downtime and pampering (even if it does mean wearing a pad the size of a pillow). Pray that the last six weeks hurtle by quicker than a preschooler on a sugar binge.

If I could spend my last six weeks of pregnancy enjoying romantic dinners with my husband, laughing with girlfriends over a virgin daiquiri or an entire a hunk of chocolate cake, or lounging around with a stack of books, I totally would. But I have two little boys to look after – so for the most part, these last six weeks are going to be much like the weeks before them: busy, hectic, and filled with filling everyone else’s needs.

When it’s all said and done, though, I’ll miss being pregnant … just a little bit. And when the fruits of my labor are all grown up and involved in their own lives – which I’m told happens all too quickly – I’ll have more than enough “me time” to make up for what these last six (long, miserable) weeks are going to lack.

… I hope.