I’m over it. I’ve had enough. I feel like I’ve been saying that the whole time, but I mean it more now?

Whereas previously, I was not particularly fussed about being pregnant. Why get excited about something that’s neutral at best? Now…it actively sucks (again). My back hurts all the time. I can barely eat for all the heartburn. And doing pretty much anything other than lying down (including sitting up) results in heavy panting. Turns out making a small human takes a lot out of a person.

And then there’s the other side of it. How excited my husband and I are to meet this little person. Get to know him/her in real life. Instead of extrapolating from all the rolls and kicks and hiccups (which are pretty much non stop). By this point, we’ve each got the delusional notion that the child will come out walking and talking and basically fully baked. After taking so long to come out, it seems the only possibility.

So, no matter how you slice it, I’m impatient. It’s a march to the end. Normally, in a situation like this, I’d do a countdown. To my birthday. To a big trip. To moving house. But those things have clearly defined endpoints. I’m not really sure what to countdown to here. Sure, there are allegedly seven weeks left. But that’s a guess at best. It’s really up to the baby (and my doctor?) when the little thing is ready to come out. And, as I mentioned above, I’m rather at a loss to figure how to ask when that is and be able to understand the response.

But I’ve got to do something, right? So, I’m telling myself there are roughly 45 days left. 45 days to do what feels like all the things ever. Even when I talk myself through it and it’s like ten things tops. 45 days. I got this.