This baby doesn't want to come out. I scheduled inducement today, just in case. My only choices were September 11 (no thanks) or ... my birthday. Hopefully it'll come before then.
A couple of girlfriends have said, "How can you call the baby an "it???"" I replied, "I could call it a fork, and it wouldn't know the difference." Yes, it is a he or she, a boy or girl, a Sam or a Harper, but I get tired of saying that. Plus, it kicks me.
I'm already on "maternity leave," which basically means I'm cleaning the house. I won't recognize "nesting" when it hits me, because I'm always nesting. Cleaning floorboards or the fridge are common events. Sometimes I hate that I best identify with Monica on Friends. She speaks and I think, "Well, yeah!"
And I'm saddened to say that I've seen more Friends episodes than ever before during this pregnancy. Matt turns the remote control over to me around Midnight, and I feel so alone in the world. "You're not going to sleep, leaving me to my insomnia, are you? Can't you, um, try to make it through Frasier, honey? Honey? ... Honey?"
Samantha Brown on the Travel Channel still has my dream career.
Matt can't wait to float me down the Salmon River, and I can't wait to go. Our child (It) has every travel-gear item known to babykind, and we look forward to using them! We were supposed to hit the family Christmas in Sun Valley, but I don't want to be "that woman" on the airplane: It crying its little head off, and people slaying us with hateful looks. 3-months-old is a bit young for frequent flier points, anyway.
Yeah, I'm bored, but I'm enjoying the quiet. I'm trying to write as much as possible. I'm selling most of my cds (hundreds), and looking forward to the weightlessness. The Tragically Hip will be staying with me.
Things are simply great, fat belly and all.
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