Tomorrow is my due date. If my body continues to follow this pattern of ignoring the calender then I’m going to be one of those girls who, when asked when my due date is, replies TODAY, AND QUIT LOOKING AT ME OR I’LL CRY.

I’m sure everyone always thinks this, but seriously, I never thought I would make it all the way to my actual due date. I don’t know why I thought this, only that maybe I just wanted it to happen that way so bad, which was really stupid because I’ve essentially been giving myself pre-due date due dates. And it doesn’t really help when so-and-so is SURE that it’s going to happen on this day, and then when THAT DAY comes and goes I’m all depressed and pissed that I’m still pregnant.

Sidenote: so-and-so is often me.

This past weekend I tried a lot of the home induction tricks, and here’s how it went down: mexican food gave me nothing but diarrhea which made me pray that I didn’t actually go into labor because ewww; taking long walks with Oliver caused flames to shoot out between my legs from my thighs rubbing together like two dry sticks in the middle of the wilderness; the glass of red wine tasted awesome and relaxed my mind, but not my uterus enough to start contracting; and sex just never happened because, well, there are complicated logistics involved when one is so mammoth and immobile.

I’ve done some serious self-examination lately trying to distinguish if I feel any different or have any pain, any cramp, any weird twinge, and when I do it’s only because I have to poop which is basically really disappointing. I mean, you think your body is preparing to have a baby and then, oops, not the baby I had in mind.

I’m ready. I’m really, really ready to hold my baby. My kitchen has never been cleaner. My floors have never been more sparkly. My legs have never been shaved with such frequency.

I’m ready.