I'm expecting Baby #3 on February 1st.
Unfortunately, it is only now beginning to dawn on me that the timing of this birth may have been somewhat less than ideal.
After limping through days upon days of Halloween-themed merriment, it occurs to me that I am now staring down multiple legs of Thanksgiving-related travel, and then moving directly into weeks of Christmas prep and execution.
And the fact of the matter is that being 7 to 8 months pregnant for all of the above is, to say the least, NOT going to make any of the holiday fun any, you know, funner.
At least I'm not delivering in September. I did that with the Snood, and I'm here to tell you that being gigantically pregnant during the hottest months of the year ensures the following triumvirate of miserableness:
- Maternity swimwear in all its unsightliness,
- Sand in unreachable netherregions.
I take some comfort in the fact that September made for such a grim pregnancy experience that it can only make early February look swell in comparison.
Crinks was born in mid-May, which was pretty much ideal. His due date meant I could conceal mass holiday-induced weight gain as innocent baby bloat, and then transition directly into a long wintery confinement of coziness until his early Spring arrival.
I'd say that's how I'd do it if I were to ever do this again, but let's be real here.
If I ever do this again, I'm likely to care little about when the birth takes place as I'll be serving time in some faraway correctional facility for the murder of my beloved spouse and/or beating my head repeatedly against the wall of a psychiatric institution where I'll have been placed on an extended "rest cure" for my own safety and the safety of those around me.
At which point the optimum time in the calendar year for infant delivery will be the least of my problems.