Listen, kid. Just because I'm feeling PMS-ey, and it turns out we just noticed the heater isn't like, working and everything, and it happens to be the night before the anniversary of the second time someone cut a (very large) small person out of my belly, we are not in the habit of performing re-enactments around here.
Yet somehow, I was just able to say to your father, "It's almost exactly like one year ago today: I'm bloated as hell, the baby is kicking around like crazy at 10pm, I can't do what I want, and we're kind of stressed in general."
I love you. I love you. Go the f**k to sleep.
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