40 Weeks Pregnant [Things that should not exist]

{I changed the name of the blog. Porque? Mostly because I have commitment issues and a little because it better exemplifies what this year will bring.}


They say that 40 years of age is the big 40.  I'm pretty sure "they" are a group of balding, dumpy men, though. Most women look fantastic at forty years of age. No, the big 40 is forty weeks pregnant. Also known as a billion years plus a rhino pregnant.

There's just no way to look graceful at 40 weeks. I pulled it off until 37. I still was getting lots of "you're so cute" and "wow, how are you three weeks from your due date" at my baby shower at 36 weeks and 5 days. But something about these last three weeks of pregnancy has done absurd things to me. I get the she's going to have the baby RIGHT HERE looks if I dare go out. It's true. I totally could have the baby right there. Except, he's more than delighted to chill in his Susie-based incubator.

And I totally get it, babycakes. It's warm, dark, and cozy in there. You get to bounce around and poke me, and listen to fun booming sounds as your daddy games. It makes perfect sense.

Only, I can't sleep anymore because you're so huge. If I try to walk at a reasonable pace, I look absurd. I get so hungry sometimes that I start crying like a toddler because, irrationally, nothing looks good. So pretty please, babycakes, can you come out soon?

I'm really not sure where else on my sturdy 5'3 frame I'm supposed to put you. Suggestions?

I know it's not summer and fruit season, but I'm pretty sure I need to have this conversation with people:

On the bright side, my maternity jeans finally fit! It only took nine months and two hearty cycles of dryer shrinking to get them to not fall down!  Hurray!  Of course, I have a fantastic jogging stroller, and I just found my Jillian Michaels DVD, so the new fit will be rather short lived. 

I know you're an erudite baby, already, and are aware that babies often get to live in their mommies for an extra two weeks. Unfortunately, dear child, you do not get that privilege. Uncle Sam has us on a tight timeline, so you need to make your presence known and soon. Otherwise, I get to go through the "I" word (induction) just to fetch you in time. 

So, out, out, out, my child. 

I'd threaten to ground you for a thousand years, but I think grounding is the most absurd of punishments. Practicing correct Latin noun declension? Perhaps.

But truly, get out, baby. I want to write your birth story.