SitRep and Thanksgiving

So I am about thoroughly over this whole pregnancy gig.  I never was really too stoked on the idea to begin with.  I mean, what happened to that damned stork that's supposed to airmail these suckers, huh?  No muss, no fuss, just a knock on the door, and ta-da!  But in all honesty, it's not been as bad as I anticipated. A friend asked me a couple months ago how it was going, and I was honestly able to reply "piece of cake."  I can't really say that now.  I'm starting to have aches and pains that I haven't had before.  Simple stuff is getting more difficult.  I lost the ability to touch my toes, and sometimes just getting in and out of bed is something of a chore that would be made much easier with an engine hoist installed in the bedroom.  I think I am finally over the awesomeness of my huge bed that requires a step-stool to get into when I'm not bigger around than I am tall.  As a matter of fact, I pulled something getting into bed last night, and today I'm really kind of pathetic:  hobbling around like an ungainly weeble trying really hard not to do anything to stress the spot further.  I'm down to the final 4... that's all the weeks I have left.  It's kind of intimidating.  I'm getting performance anxiety.  I'm kind of excited, but mostly nervous.  I think it's pretty safe to say, though, that the actual pregnancy part hasn't been too bad.  It's been quite tolerable, actually, and nothing like the horror stories people have fed me over the years.  So in brief, the sitrep is I'm pretty ok.  Which brings me to the Thanksgiving bit.  I have a lot to be thankful for, but one person just so outshines everything else this year.

I believe there is only one reason why this pregnancy really hasn't been as difficult as it could have been:  My B.
He is awesome.
He is patient.
He is loving.
He is kind.
He takes care of me.
Boy does he ever put up with me.
He takes the time to push the swelling out of my feet and ankles for me.
He puts me on orders to take a day to chill and damn the housework that gets neglected.
He helps me with the housework.
He sometimes just randomly does the dishes.
He carries baskets of laundry up and down the stairs for me.
He asks me how he can make it better.
He brings me chocolate.
He holds my hand.
He sleeps on a pallet next to the couch when I can't manage to get comfortable in the bed.
He puts up with my elaborately piled pillows that have taken over our queen size bed.
He helps me get *into* that ridiculously high bed that I was so tickled with and specifically requested when my step-mom built it.
He gives me a hard time when he knows I'm feeling playful enough to accept it gracefully.
He doesn't when he knows I'm moody, hurting, or just not feeling good.
He appreciates me.
He gets up at Oh-my-gods-it's-early to go to work every day, and he doesn't complain about it.
He turns his paycheck over to bills and household necessities, and never seems to begrudge the fact that I don't contribute much financially.
He makes me laugh.
He encourages me.
He does his very best to balance me.  When I get worked up or stressed out, he's calm, patient, and reminds me that there's no need.
He doesn't yell or get ugly when I'm moody, bitchy, and catty.
He hugs me when I'm moody, bitchy, and catty.
He ties my shoes for me.
He seems to think I'm doing a fine job, even when I feel like I'm being a slacker or a sissy.

He makes me feel confident.
He gives me strength.


He has been so wonderful throughout all the physical and emotional ups and downs all this year.  I can't even begin to list every single thing he has done to help me, encourage me, cheer me up, keep me grounded, make me happy, and comfort me.  I just wish there was a way I could show him how much it's meant, how much he's helped, and how much I appreciate everything he does all the time, every day.