Due

This is what a woman looks like when she's 40 weeks pregnant. It could be worse, no? I always thought pregnancy would be like turning Julie's whole body into a giant balloon, inflating it bit by bit until finally KABOOM. Instead, it's more like her stomach is the balloon and the rest of her retains a semblance of the original appearance. I know, I know: I should write cards for Hallmark. "Congratulations on your pregnancy. May you retain a semblance of your original appearance."


There's a kid in there somewhere, crawling around, learning to talk. At this point I'm comfortable predicting that she'll be marked tardy a lot in high school. This will be a free-spirited child with a Punky Brewster wardrobe and little patience for society's arbitrary rules, especially those involving punctuality.

Since the due-date is finally here and promises to pass without a bang or a whimper, I figured it was high time to get the car seat inspected. That's right, folks. Daddy kind of dropped the ball there. I thought it would be easy, just call the local police department and stop by with a box of donuts. Turns out that our city doesn't do it, and the surrounding cities either do it for residents only or never returned my call at all. For all the buzz about the importance of car seat inspections, the experts are stunningly reluctant to actually do it.

I teach a couple cities away, and there I found salvation. I'm getting my morning classes covered so I can get the car seat checked out and then drive the car back home in time for Julie to drive to her doctor appointment. This is necessary because Julie refuses to drive my junk-mobile, which ironically used to be her car. But whatever: she's preggers and overdue, so she gets her way despite irony.

If you see Julie before she has the baby, say to her, "Oh my gosh, I am so happy to see you!" or "You look amazing!" or "Do you want a Dilly Bar?" No more dumb comments about still being pregnant; she's heard them all.