"I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille..."

38 weeks. I could pop any ol' time, and yet the little bugger seems quite content where he is. Come out, son! We've got a welcoming committee waiting for you! So this is it. One minute you're a parent-to-be, the next you're a parent. How does this work again? We keep imagining the day we bring him home, when we look at this little wrinkled, pink stranger and wonder what we're supposed to do next. He'll be looking at us, we'll be looking at him, and it will be quite mysterious. Will I want to go back to the hospital, like I've heard so many first-time mom's do, where the nurses will tell you what to do next and there's always someone to take care of the little fellow? Or will it be love at first sight? Or both?

As the final pregnancy assault, my feet are finally beginning to swell. And I thought I might escape that particular indignity... The bun's knees are getting quite pointy, and he's not moving as much due to cramped conditions, all of which makes me hope that he's gearing up for the big entrance: I dreamed that I went into labor last night, and awoke both bummed and relieved that it wasn't happening.

And my brother who leaves in a couple of days keeps doing "baby out!" dances around me, trying to get the bun to pick up the pace so he can be here for the big event. Which would be great; if we can get him in the world before Jan. 1, we can claim him as a deduction on our taxes and not have to pay our enormous insurance deductible for the hospital stay. Heh.

You come whenever you want, little boy. No rush.

*drums fingers on tum*