Mom Bomb

Some days your mom looks like a harmless little girl who ate an overinflated basketball. Cute. Nonlethal. Others, it's like she has a big round bomb strapped to her stomach and when she looks at me and asks me something about how this or that piece of maternity clothing fits I feel like I'm staring into a digital clock on her forehead that's counting backward.

Either way, she's now set to explode is less that two months. After that I'm predicting a mess.

We spent the weekend constructing your baby furniture and outfitting the nursery. The cribs were fairly self explanatory and I had lots of help, but consider yourself warned. I also put together your mom and I's bed and had two things labeled 'braces' left over. Every time the bed so much as creaks we look at each other and wonder whose side will collapse first, leaving that person to cushion the others fall. Ever since she crossed into mobile home territory the creaks seem to be consistently on her side. If there's one upside to the whole pregnancy, it's that she looks like a pretty comfy place to land.

Anyway, I think you'll dig your new spot. My memories of the uterus are thankfully dim, but I don't think there were curtains, so there's something to look forward to right there. If you don't want the stuffed animals I'll take them. I think I'm going to need something fuzzy to comfort me as much as you will.

I've been hesitant to write lately as my progress on everything has been so abysmal. There was a week where I didn't seem to be able to string two words together. The day I finally wrote something I didn't erase I wanted to hug strangers and small animals. I've also measured my jumping ability again, and if anything I've regressed. Apparently jumping around like an idiot really was working. It's a shame that looking like an idiot isn't more effective across the board. I'd be pretty unstoppable.

Your mom and I don't sleep very well anymore, which is unfortunate since we probably won't sleep at all once you're here. She says you guys are always wrestling in the middle of the night, hitting one another over the head with her organs the way Hulk Hogan swings a folding chair. She'll sit up, breathing like she's mid marathon and rub her belly. And then I'll come out of dream in which I have nothing more important to think about than what I'm going to have for lunch and I'll see her sitting there.

Sometimes I swear I hear ticking.

Novel - pg 24
Dunking - more cookies?
French - Le bomb