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.
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.