As I’ve mentioned a gazillion times, almost no one delivers on their due date, and though a certain percentage of people get to deliver before their due date, I am not one of them. Which is fine because, you know, I LOVE BEING PREGNANT. When you’ve felt yucky for nine straight months, what’s another few days? (Insert usual caveats HERE about how I know I’m lucky to be able to get pregnant, to have a healthy pregnancy, historically cute babies, etc.)
Tonight I’m going out for a due-date dinner date with a friend. Dr. Husband, who has wicked bouts of sympathetic pregnancy symptoms, is too pooped to be my date, though he did join me yesterday for a matinee and a trip to a local watch repair store to buy a band for the vintage watch he bought for my 36th birthday—over a year ago. Nothing like an impending birth to get shit crossed off the list, man!
Tomorrow I plan to spend the day berating myself for thinking—twice—I would get to give birth before my due-date. Optimism, or self-flagellation?
(Holy shit, was I ever really that skinny?)