Mr. Candy is on a business trip in China — he plans to stock up on the REALLY cheap baby formula while he’s there! — so I had no choice but to take this CrapCam photo of myself in the mirror last night to mark my 34-week milestone.
Look out, Annie Leibovitz!
The big 3-4 is the “Magic Week,” according to my cousin who’s a labor and delivery nurse, because Baby Girl has, like, a 99% chance of survival if she decides to make her debut now. Which is reassuring news. However, I call this the “Stick-a-Fork-in-Me Week,” because I am officially done with this pregnancy. My so-called glow has been replaced with a tired scowl as I struggle to lug around, and sleep with, the 17-pound pot roast attached to my middle.
Screw carrying around hard-boiled eggs — schools should make teenagers strap a frozen turkey to their stomachs for two months! Now that would be an effective form of birth control. As would mandatory viewings of Jon & Kate Plus 8.
Did I mention we live in a four-floor townhouse? Oh yes, yes, we do. At first I was all, the stairs will keep me in shape! This is GREAT! Now I’m all, oh, the toilet paper is in the third-floor bathroom? Screw it. I’ll just use this Target receipt I see in the wastebasket.
Aside from the first four months o’ hell, which I have repressed, I’ve actually had a pretty fantastic pregnancy. (Knock on wood. Toss salt over shoulder. Stick foot up rear of neighbor’s mean, yappy Chihuahua. Gently, of course. *AHEM*) I had a ton of energy up until Week 32 or so AND I haven’t gained the equivalent of an Olsen Twin, much to my surprise. In fact, the doctor recently encouraged me to “indulge more,” which, as I keep telling people, is the best thing I’ve heard since Bell Biv DeVoe announced their reunion tour. So indulging, I am. I’m also beyond eager to hold Baby Girl for the first time and see if she has my eyes. Or Mr. Candy’s nose? Or the gardener’s sultry smile?
Any of those are possible.