Far be it from me to complain ... but I can whine with the best of 'em.
I'm not saying I want her out right this second; I'm far from sucking down castor oil or seeking out bumpy back roads in the hopes of jostling her loose. What I am saying is that if I make it to Friday without an utter come-apart it will be a miracle.
When you're not sleeping (and can anyone aside from my husband attest to my unparalleled talent for sleeping?)
AND you're stretching out even the maternity clothes you once set aside with a snicker and a "maybe at the VERY end"
AND you're still having trouble breathing because the child won't get in the GO position already
AND the 107-year-old check-out lady at Publix tells you not to hurt yourself and puts your gallon of milk in the cart herself
AND your belly feels like what you imagine a boulder would feel if it were animate enough to feel pain and were badly, badly bruised
AND it's five thousand seventy-two degrees outside and your husband insists on setting the thermostat at an astounding 74 degrees during the day
AND it hurts to sit, stand, walk, recline, hover, lie, and lean...
When those things all hit at the same time and make your excitement a little bit sharper even as they dull your will to open your eyes in the morning, well that means it's almost time to be a mama again.
Four more days of work and then I can park it on the couch with a Diet Dr Pepper in my hand and the fan at point-blank range and not budge until either my water breaks or she crawls out of me a full-grown toddler.
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