Boring Labor and Exploding Vacuums

Yup, Still here at home . . .
I think I'm starting to understand how the animal world must feel about labor. This is going maddeningly SLOW, and bed rest is getting really old.
Well, time for a confession.
I blew up the vacuum cleaner.
I think it was a message from God. Seriously.
When I woke up this morning, with the annoying cramping going hither and thither, I stood up and looked down. Major mistake. Our modified shag carpet looked like an alley cat after rain, all matted and mottled. My poor carpet has been neglected for WEEKS! I could no longer keep my hands off of my pretty light blue vacuum cleaner with all its tantalizing, fun attachements. I made sure that Alex was taken care of with breakfast first, and as Michael was at work for a few hours, I took a walk on the dumb side. "What could vacuuming SLOWLY do to me?" I mused to myself. "It's like walking back and forth slowly, right? and this vacuum is self-propelled, so it's practically walking ME!" Justification in place, I plugged in my blue beauty and started to vacuum the upstairs. I told Alex NOT to tell Daddy I was cleaning, it was our little secret, and I slowly worked my way through the rooms and down the hallway saying to myself "see, I CAN do this! The world is full of it!"
When I got to our MBedroom, I allowed the vacuum to take a peek under our bed, as I never put anything under there. All of the sudden this horrid whiny sound emanated from under the dust ruffle. I thought I sucked up a cat! Wait, we don't have pets. Well, what could it be? I'm deliberating all of this while the vacuum is still crying for help. It had sucked up one of Michael's socks that had mysteriously been "organized" away under the bed. Instead of turning off the vacuum and ripping the sock free from the vices of the vacuum, I sat there being angry that a pair of nasty, stinky socks had been retired under our bed for who knows how long. That's when the smoke started. The smoke became fodder for my anger, a way to justify my chastising Michael when he got home. "This is what happens when you don't pick up after yourself, Michael! You blow up appliances!" Fortunately the smell shocked me into turning off the machine and tending to it's wounds. Oh, that smell. It's SO hauntingly familiar from my childhood. We always had vacuums that smelled like they were eating the fan belt everytime you used it. We could equate a clean carpet to a piquant, burnt rubber odor.
So, as I hauled myself up from the crouched position I was in, my knees and thighs screaming in unison with a moderate contraction, I figured this was divine intervention. Who knows how far off the bed rest wagon I could fall? If vacuuming proved successful, I was already planning a deep scrub of my scummy bathtub. Two passes with comet and the good brush, followed by a bleach soak. I had it all planned out. The 409 in my cleaning cupboard had been calling me as well, reminding me that it wanted to commune with my kitchen counters. And, the Lysol. My dear, dear Lysol. Needless to say, The puff of white smoke caused the burning smell to linger in the air, reminding me of the orders I received when I was sent home from the hospital. "No Housework."
I'm in bed right now. On bed rest. The real kind, no fooling this time.
What was I thinking? I behaved like a junkie falling for temptation. I didn't care the consequences. Silly, stupid girl I was. I can tell you, however, WHY they tell you not to do what I did this morning. My hips and pelvis have been causing me extreme pain since this morning, making walking difficult. My feet have doubled in size. And I blew up my vacuum cleaner.

Labor still going slow, I need a new vacuum, and I'm seriously doubting whether these twins will EVER want to meet the world. Maybe I'll end up a type of Sisyphus, continually pushing upon a proverbial rock (or two) with no progression. Greek mythology may become my poetic injustice.