Yesterday I reached 37 weeks, which, I'm told, makes Bat Girl officially full term. How the hell did that happen?
Way back in July, when it seemed like I bled every time I moved, or in October, when I was contracting like crazy and being put on bed rest, if you had told me that I would actually carry this pregnancy to term, I would never have believed you. I would never have believed that having contractions every 10 minutes would become a way of life for months on end; that I would eventually get used to spending my days alone and not leaving my apartment for a week at a time; that I would be here, at the end of January, with a pink-festooned nursery (though I still choke on the word, "nursery") and stacks of baby clothes and diapers and a car seat/stroller that I can look at without making a sign to ward off the evil eye; that, in short, I would be here, at 37 weeks, with every indication that, hey, this pregnancy thing might just work out after all.
It's been a hell of a ride, that's for sure.