37 Weeks and 5 Days...

Because now I count hours and days.  I'm in my 38th week.  Are you tired of hearing about my pregnancy?

Shut up.

I'm just kidding. 

I'm not kidding. 

I'm starving. 

Why is it 900 degrees? 

Where did I put my mind? It was just here.

Why are there never any cookies?

Here's some Aristotelian Logic for you: I am pregnant. I have always been pregnant. I will be pregnant for the rest of my life.

I wish that I was intuitive enough to think that I know when he'll come, but I have no clue. Every night when I go to bed I think he's coming soon, and every morning I think he may hang in there through the end of my twenties. Even though I think I've probably got another couple of weeks, when other people suggest it, I have to fight the urge to bare teeth. Truthfully, I don't whine that much except to you, three readers, and to my ever patient husband. I may look like a marshmallow and feel like poo, but I'm still hanging on to my pride, by God! When people ask how I feel, I usually say that I feel great or that I'm a little tired. In the grand scheme of things, those things are true. Besides, no one wants to know that my hair hurts...that I had an existential crisis during breakfast...that I'm doing rain dances for contractions...that I'm scared to death sometimes...that I'd hurt someone for a strawberry pop tart...or cherry...that I can't remember what it's like to button pants. But, you know, I can't complain : )