T - 1 week

Disclaimer: this post is kind of rambling and crazy. I blame the Kahlua pie I ate, since that's the most alcohol I've in nine months.

39 weeks-ish. I was telling Mitch he better not get my feet in the picture.

Meatball is about to get an evacuation notice. Look at me. I'm enormous. I look ridiculous. I'm not fishing for compliments, so keep it to yourself. Remember that tattoo that I had on my hip? I haven't seen it in months. I have lost the will to get dressed for work in the morning, so I mostly wear jeans and Birkenstocks (since none of my real shoes fit by the end of the day) and shut my office door. I don't feel uncomfortable or miserable or anything, I'm just starting to feel silly. Like Meatball is dragging this out for attention or something.

I've realized that preparing for a baby's arrival is a lot like preparing for a natural disaster. We have reams upon reams of toilet paper, about 14 pounds of dried fruit, extra batteries, a plethora of chicken feed, and several tubs of tiny cookies from Trader Joe's. I've also stocked up on my Bumble and Bumble Hairdresser's Invisible Oil because that shit makes a blow out last for eons, and I'm assuming showering will take a backseat for a while. If Jesus comes back tomorrow, we're set. We'll be able to subsist on banana chips for months, and I'll still look super hot after all the electricity disappears.

It is starting to get a little emotionally draining. I've been having contractions every night for almost two weeks, and every night I get all pumped and excited like, omg it might be my baby's birthday soon! And then they go away after I go to bed. Meatball is very indecisive, like her father. One time, when I was on a business trip in DC, Mitch had a man date with our other indecisive friend Ross, and they had to ask me for help in deciding where they went to dinner and what time they should see a movie. Anyway, Meatball is being like that. But whenever she's ready, we're ready.