The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Hooray! I should think of more blog titles that are also Tom Petty songs.

Well, here I am. Three days til d-day, and I'm one large, round, impatient pregnant broad. Yesterday we saw some friends for one of their kids' birthday parties, and the consensus among them was that I was going to be late - very, very late.

Why THANKS, bastards! Rub it in, why don't ya? I'm nearly 40 weeks pregnant, waddling around on ankles that resemble fat, swollen little tugboats hauling my massive girth, scarcely able to turn over in my sleep or get out of bed for one of my 87 zillion nightly pee breaks without a major ordeal (i.e: lots of grunting, cursing and flopping around like a turtle on its back), with blotchy skin and digestion that has slowed to a crawl in the past two weeks. What do I REALLY want to hear? "Yeah, you're totally going to go to 42 weeks."

What I should have said: "May you all get a raging case of the trots and spend the next three days on the toilet." What I said: "Awesome. Thanks."

Doesn't anyone have the decency to just LIE TO MY FACE? "I'm sure it'll be any day now." Is that so hard?

Bleeeeeeh. Bastards.