Holy Moses. This is the infamous last month of pregnancy.
And she is going to get bigger? Where will she go? How will she possibly work herself down my birth canal without being a contortionist? This is going to hurt, huh? Don't lie.
OK, pleasant thoughts: the baby room is just about complete. Despite claiming the contrary, it looks like I will be prissifying my daughter. I love the flowered crib sheets, the lilac walls, the hanging butterfly decor and cloud art.
I also picked out her very first outfit: pink cuffed pants and a Petit Bateau (Mommy's favorite t-shirt brand!) collared shirt, topped off with a pink cap, booties and sweater jacket.
No. I am not kidding, Lord help me.
I trust however that soon enough I'll realize it's easier to keep her in diapers and spit-up-stained onesies so there is a glimmer of hope.
More pregnancy woes: I can't help but worry that she won't be healthy and I will be one of those women who don't survive childbirth to boot. And so that's what I get for reading the taboo back section of "What to Expect When You're Expecting."
Wow. Can I handle this?
My dream mind says "mmm....maybe." A few nights ago I had a dream where my baby son, Peter Porter, was a real pistol. He wouldn't stop crying and he grew to that pesky toddler stage in about 15 minutes. Plus it was no help when Kev hocked his crib and changing table to buy dope. (I could use a dream interpreter here.)
