Tomorrow

Julie woke up and said, "I think I'm having Braxton Hicks."

"Oh God."

"No, I don't think they're real--ooh--contractions."

"Ooh?"

"That was another one."

"Ahh. Hmm. Do you think perhaps you should pack the bag now?"

The contractions went away. We ate breakfast and watched "Shallow Hal," where Jack Black sees inner beauty as outer beauty, so a 300-pounder turns into Gwyneth Paltrow. I reassured Julie that she is beautiful according to the shallow, superficial standards of society, not just because of her ample inner beauty.

On our way to the dog park, she said, "I hope the contractions come back."

I nearly pulled over. "Seriously?"

"What? I'm ready for this baby. I'm ready to not be pregnant anymore."

"Yes, but--"

"You don't want a baby?" Dangerous territory.

"Well...not today."

She began to laugh. "When would it suit you, then? Because this is all about you." More laughter. Phew.

I laughed too, but more nervously.

We'll see what happens. This coming Wednesday marks 40 weeks. I think tomorrow at school I'll leave five days of sub plans on my desk just in case.

And I'll make Julie pack the friggin' bag already.