In the last week, I:

Got stuck in the bathtub and been too prideful to call for help so I sat in quickly cooling water until I was able to work up enough momentum to stand up.
Burnt my poor, distended belly button on nachos.
Told a poor, unsuspecting OB resident that what happened to my poor, distended belly button was that I burnt it on nachos.
Peed my pants (not notable - I'm a million weeks pregnant and it's allergy season. I pee every time I sneeze, which is often) with such abundance and force that I thought my water broke. Spoiler alert: it did not break.
Did the Group B Step swab by myself in a public bathroom stall because that's how my OB does things (when I was pregnant with Grady, I was allowed to take the swab home with me to do it there, which was much more convenient because I didn't have to get completely naked from the waist down in a dirty public bathroom stall and try to balance on a dirty public toilet while I swabbed my nether regions).
Got told off mightily by my little Buddha Baby who informed me that we do not call our pets stupid, even if they're barking at the fucking wind, because animals are just as important as humans (please don't tell Buddha Baby what bacon is made out of).
Cried. At everything. Including, but not limited to: running out of lemonade, the store not having the banana yogurt Grady likes, traffic, car seats, and not having garlic bread at 5am when all I wanted was to eat garlic bread.

We've reached the "everything is falling apart" stage of pregnancy is what I'm saying. Send chocolate.