Let’s make a deal: you get out & Momma will buy you pretty dresses

To the little princess in my belly,

I love you, but we are rapidly approaching a situation similar to this…

No offense, but I am starting to look like a crazy person here. Walking around the neighborhood compulsively (and since we live at the top of a hill, I am not exaggerating when I say uphill both ways), consuming enough pineapple to cripple the luau industry, plowing through spicy dishes that I would never eat on a sane day, and trying to figure out what exactly they mean by nipple stimulation. Not to mention begging your Pops for foot massages nightly (he hates touching feet almost as much as I do, but he grins and rubs them) and getting pedicures with abandon in the hopes that he or the nail tech will hit one of those allusive pressure points that will get you to wiggle your butt out of there. I have even taken to brazenly alerting the prenatal masseuse that she has permission to target all the trigger points for labor. What’s more I have been caught by enough neighbors to possibly prompt a mental health evaluation talking to the big old bump you are hiding in, trying to encourage any grass is greener on the other side of the womb thoughts you may be harboring.

My crazy persona is only complimented by the cleaning frenzy that has struck me in the last week. I have never been a fan of laundry… why spend all that money on water, electricity, and soap powder when you can just put it towards a new top? I was lucky to make it through the mound of dirty clothes that not only filled, but encased all sides of, the laundry hamper once a month. Now we barely have enough drawer and closet space to contain all the clean clothes… and everything is neatly pressed?! That iron has seen more action in the last couple of weeks than it has in the last five years. Oh, and dishes- they actually get done everyday in between the floor scrubbings, bathroom detailings, and compulsory dustings. You could eat cupcakes off the bathroom floor (but why would you want to do that? If you do, let me know because we need to talk).

So, I look crazy and you look smooshed. I can tell the tummy-condo is getting to be a tight squeeze for you because every time you move you are hitting at least two of your walls. You must be making a wreck of the place with all that squirming and so little room. Well guess what? We have an entire bedroom for you, complete with toys and books, that is a frillion times bigger than your current digs. And just so you know, your dog, Sasha, is starting to resent the fact that she was banned from the room some time ago (she and a nary used elliptical machine had laid claim to it before you were even a little wiggle of a sperm tail), and you still haven’t come to claim your space.

You have had a day or two shy of 38 weeks to do what you need to do. Now you are just sitting in the belly getting fat. I know this. I have read the books. You can totally get fat out here with the rest of us and give my stomach, back, legs, feet, hands, and all other affected body parts a break. In fact, the United States is best known for fattening up their kids! It’s a win-win for us both.

While I promise I am not going to take any dramatic steps to evict you, please know that Mommy has served you notice. The doctor has warned that if you decide to hang out for 42 weeks you will be escorted from the premises. On a happy note, she also said you are starting to do all the right things by being low in my belly with your head down, releasing enough hormones to dilate my outer-cervix and soften it a bit, and moving the cervix forward. Good job! Now, let’s work together and get the rest of it finished relatively quickly? If you get out, Momma will buy you lots of pretty dresses…



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