Eviction notice

I know it's still 9 days until my due date, but we served our first eviction notice on the chicklette last night.

One of our local pizza joints, Skipolini's, has this concoction called the "Prego Pizza." It's rumored to have some sort of legendary labor-inducing properties. I put down 3 slices of this legend, and needless to say I am still here, not in labor. Although I would now like to be evicted from my own body, as I deal with the aftermath of 6 different kinds of meat, plus extra garlic and onions. Ugh! (I have a couple of slices left over in the fridge, and am debating whether I can handle eating it for lunch. I'm thinking no, but we'll see. Pizza is pizza.)

Other things we've tried this weekend: walking, yoga, pressure point massage, and yes, sex. Well, sort of sex. There's not really room for any extra people in there right now, so we sort of improvised. Which was nice, except the baby seemed a little TOO into it, if you know what I mean. She shouldn't be thinking about these things for at LEAST 18 more years.

It's not that I don't love hosting our little nugget, or that I've had a particularly terrible time of it or anything. But I'm cranky and uncomfortable, and ready to have this childbirth thing over with so that I can start obsessing about other things. I'm sure I will look back and think I was crazy to ever want to give up this tranquil end-of-pregnancy waiting period, but I guess maybe I've had enough waiting at this point (a sentiment that I'm sure many readers can identify with).

So, anyway, here I wait. With a heart full of anticipation, and a tummy full of meat.