Because now I count hours and days. I'm in my 38th week. Are you tired of hearing about my pregnancy?
I'm just kidding.
I'm not kidding.
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 : )