I personally can’t believe it, but I have made it to 30 weeks! It’s all a quick, downhill slide on my lovely, plump behind from here. While I only have ten more weeks left, I have to honestly say I am ready for this whole pregnant thing to be fin (makes pregnancy sound romantic, like a French film or something, doesn’t it?), and I am comfortable admitting that I draft Baby Monkey Meiners’ eviction papers on an almost daily basis.
I know she will vacate the premises on her own time, but I have to admit that in the last few days the number of people (starting with my prenatal yoga teacher) who have arched one eyebrow, flared one nostril and asked if I really think I am going to make it until May 3rd, has caused that bored feeling to start shifting to excitement. Now, don’t get me wrong, I definitely want her to hang on until that 37/38 week mark, but anytime after that she is more than welcome to grace us with her presence. In fact, don’t be surprised if starting in mid-April you see me roaming the streets of St. Louis with a cardboard sign saying I will work for foot massages while chewing on those Steak and Shake jalapenos like candy… just avert your eyes and carry on with your day.
Besides being bored with being pregnant, we have been doing a lot to get ready for That Girl. Here is what we have gathered up for her nursery so far:
And those dresser drawers are filling with onesies, bibs and baby Cardinals jerseys (dude, she is the progeny of two devoted Cardinals fans, and she is due about the same time that the Cards’ 2010 season starts, did you expect anything less?)
Since things are moving along at a smooth and steady clip I am becoming more confident that I haven’t completely, irreparably damaged my child… yet. I figure I have another 18 or so years to work on that so why spoil all the fun before she even gets here?
While baby damage would totally be my fault at this point, there are, however, a few things I have decided that I just should not be held responsible for. The shortlist? If my socks or shoes don’t match, if my legs look like a European/hippie chick’s, and if the reading on the scale would make Anna Nicole turn over in her grave, I firmly believe I should not be held accountable… being as I can no longer see any of them with ease. Furthermore, for the sake of pregnant women everywhere, I decree that if your stomach is so rotund you can’t even look straight down and tell what it says, you shouldn’t have to step on it at all. (Did you hear that baby doctor? That counts for your scale too… even if the reading is displayed all level with my face.)