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In this picture taken today, Julie does not look as though a full-grown baby lives in a duplex inside her. Black is slimming, and I'm an excellent photographer. Either that or the baby is on a play-date in someone else's womb.


Ah, there she's back. Next Wednesday, Julie will be full term, 37 weeks. The goal is 40 weeks, but really it could be any time. If I suddenly go two or three days without posting, you can safely assume that she is about to give birth to the youngest person ever born in the history of humankind. Do you think Guinness will care for that fraction of a second?

One reason I'm totally freaked out (one of 7,000 reasons or so) is that Julie has not packed her hospital bag. If tonight she wakes up in a puddle of amniotic fluid, I will throw things in a bag willy-nilly, and I will certainly screw it up. Sweat pants, soap, coffee cup, magazines, crossword puzzles, toilet paper (wait, they'll have that there), movies...I have no freakin' clue. Tomorrow I will mandate bag packing. Cross your fingers for a labor-free evening until then.

I picture an hourglass with 37 weeks of sand in the bottom and an unknown amount on top. If someone could just tell me how much sand is up there, then I could cross off myriad unknowns. Will I need to get a substitute teacher right away? Will it be rush-hour traffic? Will it be a long labor? Etc. And as I write this, sand is trickling down. I wish I could turn the thing on its side for a few days and just sit and think.

*Update*

I woke up in the middle of the night. Julie was sitting up on the bed, moaning in pain.

"What's wrong?"

"Huuuuuuuuuuunnnnnn."

"Oh God."

"Gnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn."

I started counting in my head because you want to know how long the contractions are and how long in between, though I didn't remember how long was too long.

"Pmmmmmmmmmmm."

"What should I put in the bag?"

"It's...mmmmmmmmm...a leg cramp."

"Oh for the love."