Your Due Date is When?

So, here I am in the homestretch of pregnancy, and I've decided something- my doctor likes to screw with my head, just for fun.  I've had 4 or 5 due dates now.  And none of them are really accurate.  So my BEST guess is that sometime between Halloween and Christmas, the Alienbaby will make his appearance.  Well, screw guessing.  I'm taking action.

You see, my best friend is possibly available for emergency haul-ass-down-and-save-me-from-committing-murder the second weekend in November. Which means I'm going to pull out the raspberry tea, the bumpy dirt roads, and the walk-like-a-camel stops and do my best to go into labor then.  Because honestly- there is no one I love more in this world that The Queen Mother of Ta-Tas, and she is possibly the only person in the delivery room I won't want to kill.  And she'll help me smuggle coffee past the nurses.  See why I love her?

Also- I am tired of being pregnant.  To be fair, I was tired of being pregnant approximately three days in, but now I'm really bone-tired of it.  Possibly the two jobs, school, sick kids (oh, yes, the kids had the running puke-and-craps for a week, did I mention?), the itchies from hell, and the displaced ribs on my entire right side have something to do with that.  The insomnia isn't helping either.

Perhaps that's why I'm daydreaming about going into labor.  Unlike most preggos, I don't dread labor.  I love it.  I look forward to it.  Okay, yeah, it hurts.  So does stubbing my toe or falling down the stairs eleventybillion times while trying to do laundry.  Or getting thrown off a horse- and I've done that  A LOT.  But- and here's the great thing- labor hurts only until they hand you the scrunched up little demon you just pushed out.  And once the intial 10 fingers, 10 toes, proper equipment, no tail checklist is done- there's this rush like nothing else.  Because that's YOUR demon, and he's all in one piece, with no missing or spare parts, and you can relax.  And once you pop into the shower (ignore the bloodbath, it's normal), toss on an industrial sized maxi ad and some clean jammies, the world pretty much settles back onto it's normal axis, and you can get on with being a mommy. 

Except now you have rogue milk cannons attached to your chest.  And those are a WHOLE different ball game.