Please. I'm begging you. I'm desperate. I really am done with this whole production known widely as "Pregnancy: Hell on Earth." Don't you feel cramped in there? Wouldn't you like to get some fresh air?
See, it's not really the kicking and the wiggling that I mind. It's the grinding sciatica and disfiguredly swollen ankles that bug. Also, I'm not looking so hot, lately. Whale-sized is kindof looked down upon out here.
I suppose I could thank you for the intensely strange urge to clean and purge my house of all things "dirt," but it does make it difficult on your brother and sisters as they are intensely keen on dirt. Also, I feel I should be allowed to draw the line on this "nesting" thing. I mean, dreaming up things for me to clean is a bit much, eh? Can we please go back to the bizarre dreams about dog-fighting and mail order husbands?
I've done as much as I can think of to encourage your early arrival. All the walking in the world, carrying heavy furniture, and jumping up and down just hasn't been enough, eh? I really and truly just can't fathom the thought of another 2 weeks. Please, I'm desperate.
Love,
Your Mother - the one doing squats.
P.S. I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, you'd better be making some "headway" or your name is MUD!
Wednesday, 2 April 2008
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