I'm in bin laden overload. I just can't read anymore. I can't watch anymore 'inside scoop' news reports. He's dead. I am glad that his particular brand of evil and hate is gone, but don't anticipate this solving major terrorist problems, as there are far too many willing to take his place.
Therefore I'm going to post about me and the impending entrance of one Brooklyn Claire. Oh, she's still baking, that I can promise you. Baking away despite me being dilated to 3 1/2 cm. I'm so caught up in the anticipation and not-knowing that every twinge brings the question: "Is this it?" Each twinge also brings me back to a level of self-centeredness of which I'm not in the least bit proud, but must own up to (yes, I just ended that sentence in a preposition. I'm moving on. *Look, I did it again. *And again. ..).
The update is no real update other than almost constant Braxton-Hicks contractions that are not getting noticeably stronger or closer together. And no, my OB does not make predictive statements about when a baby might arrive. I'm guessing he learned that lesson early on in his practice? Kind of like when I learned that giving unsolicited speech advice is a bad, bad idea.
So yes, I'm ready to meet the wee little girl (I think), but must admit to a foolish level of concern over the weather and the planning coming home outfit. If you'll recall, it's a sleeveless romper. I took ample amounts of time selecting just the right thing and now it's freaking 50 degrees outside! In May! Lucky for us, by Wednesday it'll be in the 80's again. . . and by next Monday? The mid-90s. Yay. I'm guessing I'll still be pregnant then. Pregnant and swollen.
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