Um, crap.

No, let me put a little more real emotion in that.

Uh … shit.

I’m 34 weeks pregnant today.  That seems like an awful high number.  Scarier than that?  It means I officially (I say officially because … well, no one really knows anything, do they?) have 6 weeks left.  That is most certainly not so high a number.  Six.  S-I-X!

Let me reiterate.  Uh … shit.

Do you have a solid grasp yet on how my overactive OCD brain works?  You know I have a list of 2,938,302 things to do before The Squishy (that’s what we call it because we have no name or sex for it … how profoundly adorable, right? Ick.) makes an external appearance.  You know that all of 8 of those things are done, right?  I keep telling myself I have “plenty of time”.

Translation: I am delusional.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Today I went to the doctor’s office for my (presumably) last ultrasound.  The report says the measurements estimate it weighs 6 damn pounds already.  Six.  S-I-X.  Now, I’m the first to tell people that ultrasound weight estimates are largely one part voodoo and one part guesswork, but still.  That’s a much more eye opening number than say … 2 pounds.  6lbs implies that it’s like Real Baby sized.  That means it’s going to show up sooner rather than later … you know, later … like June when I’ll have all of this To Do List crap done.  Maybe.

Shiiiiiiiit.

I think this means I might have to get my self in gear.  There’s bedroom furniture to rearrange, a crib to assemble, more laundry than I’d like to admit, and oh, you know, CHRISTMAS to have in the middle of the whole operation.

My OCD is going to have a stroke.  Possibly today.

Em.

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