This morning I tried to reason with my baby, explaining to her why it’s a good idea for her to come out and join us in the next few days.
“You see, I only have one more single-serving orange juice left in the fridge,” I told her, trying to sound as logical as possible. “That means after Wednesday, I will have nothing to drink in the mornings at work. Therefore, I need to go into labor by Thursday morning.”
I think she must have seen that my argument was a bit thin, because she didn’t react. Not a thump to a lung or anything. I don’t think she cares about my orange juice situation.
As of today, I am exactly two weeks from my due date. Every day, I get a little more eager to see my baby for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that I’ve finally adopted a pregnancy waddle, which I’d been trying to avoid. (I’ve been told this is “cute,” but I’m not sure I agree.)
I’m looking forward to the day when my husband and I can go to the grocery store together without me having to tell him to walk slower every two minutes. I’m looking forward to a time when I can go to sleep (on my stomach, even!) and wake up without a backache. And, of course, I’m looking forward to holding my little girl (or boy), having a moment of profound awe at the little miracle my husband and I created, and settling in for a lifetime of trying to figure out how to be a good parent.
But first, the baby has to come out here and join the world.
Come on, kiddo, you can do it. We have candy out here . . .