Today the baby is half-cooked at 20 weeks 1 day, although technically, I'm probably more than a little halfway through my pregnancy, since I'm having a scheduled C-section about a week before my due date of August 26th. I can't believe I'm halfway there. In the beginning, the weeks seemed to drag. Now, though, they're going too fast! We have so much to do: clean out the nusery, which has been our "catch-all" room for years, prime and paint the walls, buy furniture, buy bedding, and do a million other things that are flying through my mind on a daily basis. My husband thinks we have plenty of time. I'm not so sure.

And because I'm one who always likes to please my reading public (all four of you), and because Shannon reminded me that I owe you this story, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. I'm not the only half-baked one in my world.

#4 is also half-baked. If you're a frequent reader here, you know that my mother's dear fourth husband has told my 76-year old Italian grandma that she drives a mafia car, informed my 78-year old great aunt that she could stand to lose some weight, and is generally a monumental arse in every sense of the word. Needless to say, there's no love lost between us.

For my surprise birthday party, he stayed in the background and took some nice pictures. I'll give him that. But his good behavior lasted for that night only. On the Saturday following my party, he reverted to his old ways.

My mom, sister, and I had a nice afternoon shopping alone, sans #4. We went to lunch, crib-browsing (thank you again, Karrie, for tolerating that excursion), and food shopping for the dinner I was hosting for my entire family that night at my house. #4 went to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to browse for gadgets, which the man lives for. Great. Go for it. We returned home to my house where #4 was waiting for us, bogged down with tons of bags of food from my weekly grocery shopping, as well as all the extra food for the family dinner. My mom, my sister, and I made multiple trips from the car, into the house, and back again. #4 didn't offer to help. Instead, he had show-and-tell on his mind.

Like a little chihuahua who has taken hold of his person's pant leg and is dragging her, in between ear-piecing barks, toward the biscuit jar, #4 darted into the kitchen where we were dumping the groceries and immediately began to demand my mother's attention: "Kathy! Wanna see what I bought? Huh? Huh? Wanna see what I bought at Bed, Bath, and Beyond Kathy? It's really cool. Come on. Come on! COME ON! WannaSeeWhatIBought?"

And like any dog owner fed up with a whining, persistent tiny dog that won't quit yapping, or barking, or chasing its tail, my mother kept telling #4, "In a minute. In a MINUTE. IN A MINUTE."

It was absolutely, unequivocally the most pathetic display from an adult I've ever seen in my life.

Later that night, as my family members were leaving, and as my husband was helping to load leftovers and older family members into their cars, my sister and mom were taking down the extra tables and chairs I had brought up for the dinner and were making trips down to the basement with them. I couldn't help because apparently pregnant women are fragile. My mom has a bad back and bad knees and really shouldn't be hauling tables and chairs anywhere. That left one able-bodied person, my sister Karrie. #4 sat in the kitchen, on a bench, with his legs outstretched and his hands behind his head, watching my mom and sister haul the furniture down the stairs. And didn't offer his help. My mom eventually asked him for help, telling him she has bad joints and shouldn't be straining them (something he knows already). He told her, "Oh, I think you're doing a fine job all by yourself." She got angry at that point, and asked him again to help. By the time he hauled his arse off the bench to help, my sister was taking the last load down the stairs.

Anyone out there looking for a new man? I will pay a hefty sum of money for you to take #4 out of my life forever. No? I didn't think so.