Last night I dreamed about things spilling—water, juice, milk, glue. I dreamed twice of glue spilling—or, more precisely, a glue stick melting for unknown reasons onto our coffee table. Twice.
I thought maybe the dream was a sign of impending labor—cervical effacement analogies, anyone?—but no.
Instead I have a kid with an ear that mysteriously smells like an extra-yeasty English muffin and a pediatrician's appointment during her regularly scheduled naptime tomorrow. By which time I had hoped I would have magically given birth, as I have an appointment with my OB in the morning and was harboring plans to demand she wave her sparkly wand over my lady parts to get this show on the road.