25 pages of solid gold...or pyrite?

Deep.... Long.... SIGH!

I finally, after hours and hours and hours of messing with it, turned in one of my final papers this morning. It was one of those papers where I busted out the initial draft and then made it through the peer review without actually taking in (probably due to the tact of my classmates and professor, who didn't want to take responsibility for making a pregnant woman bawl) exactly how bad it sucked. Then I put it aside for awhile, picked it back up expecting to have some minor tweaking and polishing, and realized the whole thing needed to be rebuilt.

SIGH.

Because it was about pimps and hos, it was kind of a fun paper to write. And I have to admit...I'm actually kind of happy with it (which, without a doubt, means my professor is probably going to hate it, because I notice it's always the things I like most that other people dislike and vice versa!) But still, an immense feeling of relief settled on me when I dumped it in my his box this morning. That's ONE thing down...

If a fairy godmother appeared in my office right now (I know, I know, too much Enchanted with Emily Pie) I would wish I still didn't have two papers more to finish. I hate this point of the semester, any semester, but especially winter semester. Being almost done means I still have a ton of shit to do, but at the same time I'm rapidly losing my ability to discipline myself away from fun, as the need to indulge myself in social events, good eating, and shopping increases by the day. Christmas is creeping closer and closer and the days go by with nothing done...a bare tree in the dining room, ornaments still packed away, the only shopping done what I did online on Black Friday. No letters are written, no cards addressed, and no packages are sent. And now there are only TWELVE days left!

Then add the Imminent Baby to the mix. Every day I am stretched thin between work and school is another day I put off packing my bags for the hospital, finishing the last touches on Miss Scarlett's room, and getting the house clean (er than it is)--or, okay, let's be honest, making my husband do it. And the desire to holiday-socialize is compounded by the realization that, in all likelihood, I'm probably be spending a lot of time ALONE, cooped up in my HOUSE, over the next few months. I had a huge realization yesterday how hard it's going to be to stay at home, most of the time with no one to talk to, while everyone I know including my husband labors at jobs that don't allow them to linger on the telephone with lonely post-partum mommies! So now I feel like I should be spending all of the time I can with friends before a crying baby renders me a socially undesirable companion. After all, very few of our friends have kids.

And then there are the thank-you cards, oh the THANK-YOU CARDS, for all the lovely things my generous friends and family gave me at baby shower! I tuck the blank notes in my purse each day hoping to get to them, and then feel like a total shithead when I don't. Days pass into weeks, the guilt compounding with each of them, and the suspicion burgeons in my heart that everyone I know thinks I am an ungrateful wretch who is only using them for baby gifts, and still the notes sit in my purse! Ahhh! Okay, I might be overreacting about this a bit. I think I know too many of those lovely people who have a thank-you card in your mailbox exactly ten minutes after you give them something.

Do you know, the only thing taking care of itself right now, interestingly enough, is the actual baby. Thank god I don't have to be in charge of making sure she gains weight (other than stuffing my face, which comes all too easy!), and making sure my body is getting ready for delivery, otherwise I'd probably be causing delays in her arrival. It's nice, although quite freaky, that my body actually knows what to do without any input from me. That's what our childbirth class teacher told us, and I have to admit that this thought rose up in my mind: "What if mine doesn't?" But signs this week (some of THOSE THINGS they tell you might happen, probably too gross to reveal to the innocent blog reader) tell me that even my body, my pudgy, swollen, achy, body, probably has a pretty good idea. I'm pretty pleased with my body for that, and I know I don't appreciate it nearly as much as I should. So here's one thank-you note I can take care of right now:

Dear Body,

Thanks for not asking a lot of me right now. It's nice to know that with you, I don't have to be my normal control freak self, because I can actually trust you to handle your shit. I know the acid reflux you torment me with at four in the morning is really not your fault, nor is it your fault that for some odd reason I can't kneel due to strange pain in my knees. I know you are doing the best you can to prepare me for the amazing life-changing event of having an anklebiter, and that you're only making my pelvis ache because you don't want an episiotomy or a C-section any more than I do. Thank you also for finally fulfilling my lifelong wish for bigger boobies (although, if it's not too much to ask, can you please ask Miss Lefty to get with the program, as I'd prefer not to be lopsided for life?) I promise when the baby arrives to start taking better care of you via running and the elliptical and fewer fried chicken sandwiches (insert guilty glance at the balled-up wrapper in the garbage here) because I know you miss your former not-quite-as-blimp-like structure. And let's make a deal...if you can keep my pain during labor to a minimum, I will use every fiber of my mental strength to keep the anesthesiologist and his foot-long needle away from you. Sound good?

Thanks again, body. I know I don't say this enough, but you're kind of a superstar.

There, one thank-you note down, thirty to go. And don't forget those Christmas cards...and those last two papers...AUGH!