D-Day

It’s arrived:  my due date.  And, sadly, I feel better than ever this morning.  Well-rested.  Pain-free.  Energetic.  Ugh.

What’s a pregnant chick gotta do to get some CRIPPLING, KNIFE-IN-THE-SIDE, BABY-PUSHING CONTRACTIONS ’round here?!

When my doctor entered the room at my 40-week checkup yesterday, she looked at me and sighed, “I can’t believe you’re here.  I really can’t.”  Yes, folks, I’m even letting down my DOCTOR.  An examination Down Under revealed that I’m now 3 cm dilated — heartening progress — and Baby Girl is so low that she’s practically sticking out her hand and waving to us.

“Hi, guys!  I’m just going to stay in here till all that Michael Jackson and Gates-gate nonsense passes, okay?”

Can’t say I blame her.  If I could hide out in someone’s uterus to avoid more “BREAKING:  MICHAEL JACKSON REMAINS DEAD” news, I probably would, too.

Because we do not yet have an actual baby with whom to celebrate D-Day, I am taking my dad out for the next-best thing:  his first-ever manicure.  Of course.  The birth of gorgeous hands!  Mom and Mr. Candy are going to be so jealous when they see the close-up shots of us holding Baby Girl with our beautifully manicured cuticles…

Cutting cuticles.  Ick.   That kind of pain has got to be right up there with labor, right?  …Right?!  Hey!  Why do I feel Baby Girl belly laughing down there…?