Thirty. Nine. Weeks.
Another doc's appt, another doc's appointment booked for next week. Sigh.
Every day, I make sure that something else that has been appropriately "nested" is pointed out to the belly, as in, "Look, Punchy! Here's your car seat! You can come out now." Or, "Hey, Punchy! Your diapers are all folded and put away, and your bed is made. Time to come out." Or, "Oh, Punchy? I washed and dried all of your toys, so they're clean and ready for you to play with."
Today's effort was a bit smaller: "Hey, Punchy, I did my nails." Just in case that was what was holding it back.
I've been considering, lately, that some people just aren't comfortable with this whole Miracle of Life business. Like me, for example. Here I am, on my third baby, and am still
Ok, fine, since you insist. Below, a recently-rediscovered effort at explaining about what pregnancy does to your body, drafted when I was the host organism to Huffalump the First, who became Vaughn. I regret that I never finished it, as the third trimester is really the "best" part, but don't have a scanner at my desk anymore.