Skippy Says: 37 Weeks (Pregnancy Journal)

37 Weeks

Dear baby girl,

This is a big day for us. Today, I'm officially full term. And today, we are officially moving into our new house which we've been remodelling constructing for the last six months. We'll just ignore the fact that full term doesn't mean all that much since I technically have three more weeks to go. And while we're in the groove of ignoring things, we'll also ignore that the house we're moving into isn't quite done. And by that I mean, there's not exactly hot water in it quite yet. The next few days should be interesting as we wait with bated breath to discover what I hate more-- cold waters or being smelly. I have a feeling I may prefer the latter, but daddy might weigh in favor of me going with the former.

The last week has been absolute madness as we prep for the big move. Your grandma and grandpa have been helping a ton-- they're at the house every single day helping with one thing or another. I'm quite honestly constantly in awe of their unceasing support, and I so hope that I'll be able to give you the same thing one day. I've been helping when and where I can as well (in between prenatal appointments, various last minute prenatal tests, la leche league meetings, sessions with our doula, etc) but am pretty limited with what I am allowed to do given my big belly these days.

Speaking of that belly of mine, two people in the last week have asked me whether I'm having twins. Baby girl, here's your first piece of the heaps of unsolicited advice you're sure to get in your lifetime: don't ever, ever, ever ask a pregnant woman if she's having twins. No good can come of it. The stunned look on their faces when I told them there was only one of you in there didn't help matters too much either. Followed by "oh, she's going to be biiig." Thank you, kind strangers. Thank you very much.

On a brighter note, you and I have found a fun new game to play. You poke a limb out, I push back on it, and then you quickly retreat and poke another one out elsewhere. Rinse and repeat until one of us gets tired. Usually you. Gonna have to learn to buck up, girl- l'm not going to be going easy on you just because you're little. When I told daddy about our game, he commented that it sounded suspiciously close to a childhood favorite-- whac a mole. From none other than Wikipedia: "Whac-A-Mole is an arcade redemption game. A typical Whac-A-Mole machine consists of a large, waist-level cabinet with five holes in its top and a large, soft, black mallet. Each hole contains a single plastic mole and the machinery necessary to move it up and down. Once the game starts, the moles will begin to pop up from their holes at random. The object of the game is to force the individual moles back into their holes by hitting them directly on the head with the mallet, thereby adding to the player's score." That's a whole lotta words, so perhaps a visual aid is in order:

Except hopefully I'm not poking you hard enough to give you that woozy, though undeniably adorable, look on your face.

Love,

Mama