I am well, thanks for asking. I know I haven't seen you in a few weeks. We've missed six (six!) birthday parties, not to mention cookie decorating parties, playgroups, and the usual array of holiday whatnot. But all is well. I'm just preoccupied, sitting on this little egg, waiting for it to hatch. Broody, Wiki calls me. Fair enough. Anyway, love to you all, and since you won't get a Christmas card from us this year either, Merry Christmas. From my family to yours.
See you next year.
Let's get this thing over with, shall we? But not tonight. Because tonight, when you woke me up with new symptoms (and one or two of what I swear were true contractions), I realized I'm Not Ready. I still have a few gifts to wrap and Christmas candy to deliver and two evaluations to write for work and my Big Girl pants for the hospital are still in the attic, and ... can I have a few more days to study? I promise I'll get ready, instead of just talking about how I feel like you're going to be here soon and I should probably pack a bag, just in case.
How does Friday look for you?
Dear Little Boys Asleep In the Room Next To Me,
You're doing just fine. When it's thirty five degrees out and raining, and you have runny noses, and your mother is so very pregnant and won't take you to any of the fun Christmas parties, and you've been up at 4:30 a.m. every day for the past week, it is perfectly acceptable to watch movies all day. Also, new batteries in an old bulldozer was DIVINE inspiration, don't you think? And even though you're supposed to stay in your beds until we come to get you, your dad and I laid in ours and listened to you giggle with the thrill of Getting Away With Something this morning. The day before you'd been driving each other nuts, but there's no comrade like a co-conspirator, eh? The THUD of Silas' little feet hitting the floor, accompanied by a cheer and an "I did it!" was especially endearing.
Love you guys. Sleep tight.