Eviction Notice

Forty weeks tomorrow and I am DONE. Done with not being able to see my feet. Done with waking up at 3am because this little gymnast decides that’s prime time for soccer practice. Done with Marcus asking “how are you feeling?” in that sweet, concerned voice that makes me want to scream because HOW DO YOU THINK I’M FEELING, I’M CARRYING A BOWLING BALL UNDER MY RIBS.

Eviction Notice

I love this baby already - don’t get me wrong. I’ve loved her since the moment I saw those two pink lines. But if she doesn’t make her grand entrance soon, I’m going to have to serve an official eviction notice. My back is staging a full revolt, my feet have disappeared somewhere below the horizon of my belly, and I’ve started making sounds when I stand up that I swear only Biscuit should be able to hear.

Marcus keeps hovering, asking if there’s anything he can do, bless his heart. Short of physically removing this child for me, no honey, there really isn’t. But the look on his face when he feels her kick… okay fine, maybe I can hold out a little longer. Maybe.