After putting up with my groaning and gnashing of teeth over the heinous appearance of hospital gowns, T gifted me with this little number, in blue. The hospital bag is now packed and perched by the door.
I'm excited and nervous. A week and a half from now we'll be full-term. We're still crossing our fingers for an early delivery. There is a cinnamon Yankee Candle plug-in wafting through the kitchen, dining room, and living room. I picked up some pineapple on a craving whim at the supermarket and found out afterward it's known for helping induce labor (like cinnamon). "Fair play, Liz!"
The worry I should be feeling during my conscious hours about becoming a real Mom within a month is seeping into my sleep at night, making some pretty weird and intense dreams. Even David Bowie showed up in one of them. Why? I have no idea.
T's requested gift this Christmas changed from a tattoo to a shotgun. A purchase I saw as equally frivolous as the latter with the pooping, crying, money-sucking baby (who is going to be so stinking adorable your eyeballs are going to melt out of your skull) that's just around the corner for us. Upon further questioning, he explained it was his form of "nesting". He wants to be able to protect our new family, and I realized I couldn't begrudge him that. Just as much as he likes going out and getting me the rare food item I happen to be craving once a week as the provider, he also wants to be the protector. So Happy Christmas, darling. Don't shoot your eye out.
Also, my transformation into a Mom has begun: for Christmas I asked for practical things, like slippers, a new duvet, and a spill-resistant tablecloth. Sheesh. At least I have a great Mom, so I don't really worry about turning into her.