Yes, the rumors are true- I am still pregnant.

Today was my THIRTY-NINE WEEK appointment. I know. It's hard to believe that I'm not on Week 63 or something equally outrageous like that. I should have just prepared myself from the beginning that I was on a 42-week journey and distracting people like Steve would try to convince me that I would deliver at 37 weeks. Cruel jokers.

At my appointment today, I was checked and told that basically nothing is going on down there. So, mystery solved: it really was just gas the other night. TMI? Well then don't stick around for the birth story in a few days. Or weeks. Oh who am I kidding, it could be a full month from now before this little human makes up his/her mind to leave the comfy, fudge-filled body cavity that has become "home." But according to my doc, they won't let me go past 41 weeks. I am not too happy about that. I mean, as much complaining as I do about wanting this baby to be out NOW, I don't want to be artificially-induced. I think babies come out when they're ready, and if s/he isn't out, well then, s/he just isn't ready yet. So I go back on Friday again (AWESOME) for another check, and if nothing is a'movin' and a'shakin' down south, she is threatening to strip my membranes. Which, no big deal, I had that done with Sam and I think it "encouraged" things to start happening. I would much prefer that over the dreaded PITOCIN (cue over-dramatic violins and lightening bolts). So we will see. If you would like to be added to the text-alert club to get grossly-awesome updates via your cell phone (ex: "OMG I'm going to the hospital to poop out my kid! Yay!"), please send your cell number to my email and I will be sure to bug you in the middle of the night (because I don't see this child being born in the convenient hours of 9-5).

I also took advantage of the babysitter (Steve- HA) and went next door to register myself at the hospital. Because, well, it's about time I got around to that. The lady doing my paperwork asked me for my due date and I told her the 25th. She stopped what she was doing and looked at her calender. She pointed to Sunday's block and said, "THIS day? The 25th of THIS month?" Um, yes. I promise that if my water breaks in your office today that I will clean it up before flitting off to L&D. So now I'm officially "in the system" at the hospital. COME ON SECOND BABY. THERE'S YOUR CUE.

Anyways, according to the emails I can't/won't unsubscribe from, I am baking a mini-watermelon in here this week. You read that right- a mini-WATERMELON. Although there appears to be nothing "mini" about this situation.

As usual, I still cannot see my feet or Sam when he stands directly in front of me. (Sam has not seemed to pick up on this yet, and that is why I still bowl him over about 32 times a day.) I tend to waddle after sitting (or standing. or lying down) for a while. I've also slowed down my fudge-making (*SHOCKER*). We ran low a week or so ago, and Steve said, "I'd better eat these last two pieces!"
Why?
"Because if I eat these, then you'll just make more, right?"
Um, yes, I most likely will.

And this is how most things go in our house.

Now get a load of this.

Sam and I went walking/toddling/waddling the other day and came upon the next-door neighbor girls jumping on their trampoline in their swimsuits with the hose on.

Someone couldn't tear himself away from the action.

So we just sat down and watched. Like a couple of creepers. Two of them eventually came over to play with him and he had no idea what to make of them. He just kept smiling and staring. And then one of them farted and I declared it HIGH TIME to go home.