Hitting the Wall

I have reached the point in this pregnancy when I am just totally.

Over.

It.

I am ready to be done and move on. Give me a healthy baby and let's call it a day. I can't wait for the hips to stop aching. For the day when I can play on the floor with Sammy and not need a fork lift to stand up. For a day when it doesn't take me fifteen minutes to walk up two flights of stairs. For the day when it's not necessary to take three showers because I sweat if I even so much as look outside.

So what if I barely have any diapers or, um, clothes for this little girl. I can make do. I have a bed and a boob, so I should be fine.

Our recent trip and impending move only adds to the impatience. Knowing that our big beautiful house is just sitting there waiting for us is killing me. I keep imagining all of our belongings placed just so, and I can't wait.

All of our friends, knowing that for every one I saw there were two I didn't, waiting there for us.

And I still have eight weeks. I know it's not that long, but I'm so very weary. And tired.

But there are miles to go before I sleep. At least, on my back again.