So I was sitting down on Monday night, April 26th, to do a post about:
The Stages of a Baby Who Won't Come
1. Denial - this can't be happening to me. Maybe she miscalculated her due date?
2. Anger - Am I/Are you EVER going to have this baby? This baby is deliberately torturing me/us!
3. Bargaining - If I take this walk, the baby will come.
4. Depression - Stupid baby. Never going to come. Be pregnant forever. Just going to die.
5. Acceptance - Okay. Fine. I'm/She's going to be pregnant forever.
And I was going to say that I thought that I, and most of my friends and family, had successfully reached stage five, where we accepted that the baby was never going to come. People had stopped clutching their phones. Work had started scheduling me for meetings. Nobody was surprised to see me anymore.
But then, it happened.
Instead of writing the post, I ate the dinner that I had been feeling too sick to eat at dinner time. Then, I spent the next 6 hours regretting that I was going to yarf tuna noodle casserole, because I really like tuna noodle casserole and there nothing like yarfing it to turn you off your favorite food.
Yeah, contractions, man. I don't know if anybody has mentioned this, but they hurt, like, a lot.
And then, eventually, the baby came.
And now I am the mother of three. Which sometimes seems like a serious accounting error.