Due date

Still no baby. I think we’re going to bust out some drastic measures here pretty soon, see if we can’t coax him to join us. [Hmm … one recommended measure is actually the same activity that got us into this mess in the first place. How does that work? Do they cancel each other out?]

Though I’ve been complaining about Beaner’s tardiness, I confess I woke up this morning and freaked out. It was one of those abbreviated “I’m not ready for a baby!” attacks. I think part of it is because my last day of work before maternity leave was just yesterday, and frankly, I want a few days to put my feet up before I have to birth a young’un.

But then I listen to the sound my skin makes as it’s pushed to the absolute edge of its endurance and then I wait for the little “pop!” as another stretch mark appears to join its brothers. That’s when I change my mind again and start hopping around, trying to encourage a timely descent of Mr. I’m Waiting For An Engraved Invitation. Hasn’t worked yet, but hey.

In other news, like there could be any other news: We bought a bird feeder and attached it to the tree right outside our picture window. We’re waiting to see if The Obese Squirrel will figure out how to divest it of seeds; I think this is the same squirrel that ate our jack-o-lantern and then bled all over the remains. Nasty little bastard.

How ‘bout, um … Helicopter? We still don’t have a name for Junior. But Tiberius Khan is sounding better and better.

I don’t know if I can stay up that late: Say, do people not do the whole “pork and sauerkraut for New Year’s” thing out here? I hate sauerkraut, but I was rather surprised that it wasn’t on sale at Mars. It’s always on sale this time of year back home in Ohio; perhaps the tradition is a German/Pennsylvania Dutch thing?

God, seems like just yesterday I was freezing my ass off in some little get-up, walking around Windsor or Bowling Green, headed to some drunken party and kissing boys as the clock strikes. This year i’ll be wedged into the living-room loveseat, watching either Dick Clark [does he still do that thing?] or the extended edition of Return of the King. Jesus Christ, I’m lame. Is it because I’m pregnant or am I just a loser now? Has the homebody tendency entrenched itself so deeply? Does anybody care? I don’t. I’m going to go eat some fudge now.

P.S. Dear Beaner. You’ll love it out here, I swear. The weather’s terrific, the house smells like banana bread, and we’ll put Guns’n’Roses on the stereo. Mommy is very understanding, and Daddy will whistle you a little song. We’ll even feed you. In fact, you won’t have to do a thing! We’ll just put your clothes on for you and change your didies and give you all the lovin’ you can handle. JUST PLEASE GET OUT OF MY BODY. I won’t even spank you for kicking your mother for the last three months straight. Pinkie-swear.

December 30, 2004 | Filed Under daily grind