Not years old.
In the last few days, I have reached new heights of bigness and soreness and puffiness. I hope it is the harbinger of THE END. But people like my sister and my obstetrician look at me with great pity when I say things like this. They know I'll probably go over and be induced. AGAIN.
Jake even had the gall to ask me if I could wait until next weekend to go into labor. Cause he's just too busy this week. Well, get used to that smell from the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Cause I'm too busy too move.
I'm wondering if the Girl Scouts have a drive-thru? Cause I need some Samoas. And I don't want to have to park in front of the Wal-Mart with my hazards on, and honk and wave over a Brownie Scout. Is too humiliating.
Yesterday morning I got up at 6:45 and put on my tall boots. First thing. Cause I was afraid if I waited until 7:45, the boots wouldn't go on over my cankles/hot dog feet and I'd end up in flip flops again.
And it was raining. I love rain.
One thing nice about the 8 am church (perhaps only thing?) is the Sunday nap. I awoke in a blurry stupor at about 4 pm, warm under my down comforter, the rain tapping on the window and watering my shrubberies so I won't have to, and asked Jake: when do you think we'll have another rainy Sunday with three hour naps?
Never, he replied.
That seems very glass-half-empty (if realistic).
Because realizing my dream is possible, if these criteria are met:
1) The as-yet-unborn infant is old enough to go upstairs and play Super Mario Bros. with all his sabbath-breaking elder siblings.
2) El Niño comes round again. (in 3-7 years.)
We are going to start to work on the baby's eye-hand coordination as soon as he gets home from the hospital. So we'll be ready, when the weather is.