The Final Countdown

Thirty-eight weeks, people. THIRTY-EIGHT. I can’t see my feet, I can’t sleep more than forty-five minutes at a time, and this little gymnast apparently thinks 3 AM is prime time for a dance party in my ribs.

The Final Countdown

Marcus keeps asking if I’m okay and honestly? I keep answering in a pitch only dogs can hear. I love this baby already - SO much - but if she doesn’t make her grand entrance soon, I might have to serve her an eviction notice. My back is killing me, my feet are so swollen I’m pretty sure they qualify as their own zip code, and yesterday I cried because I dropped a spoon and couldn’t bend over to pick it up.

But everyone keeps telling me I’m “glowing” so there’s that. Pretty sure it’s just sweat and determination at this point, but I’ll take it. Two more weeks, baby girl. Mama’s ready to meet you… and to see her feet again.