Eviction Notice

So.

Tomorrow, I'm going to meet my son. I haven't worked out yet what I'm going to say, but I plan to sing him "Happy Birthday" at some point. Feels appropriate, although I doubt I'll have a cupcake on me. (But I might.)

April 14th marks sixteen days of ghastly tardiness, something I hope my father-in-law will forgive someday. The kid's a pokey puppy, what can I say? I'm taking this as an indicator that my uterus is a uniquely comfortable and aesthetically pleasing place. Too bad he's getting the big eviction notice in the morning. I am, of course, beyond nervous, but after hauling around this 40-pound feedbag (yes, I said it, Shannon) for months, it's time to get the party started.

We had a bunch of tests done last Friday, where they confirmed that he's a big boy -- almost ten blessed pounds. Eesh. Starting with an ultrasound given by a technician who could easily have second career as Reba McEntire's stand-in (EXACT TWIN, I'm telling you), we wrapped things up after a meeting with an obstetrician who not just looked like, but WAS Howard Stern. Like, down to the hair and glasses and Adam's apple. (He's a German doctor who practiced for years in Italy but now works in Denmark and is practicing his French for his Mediterranean vacation next week, speaking to us in rusty English. I'm pretty sure he was an obstetrician; he kept pointing to the most gigantic poster illustrating the birth canal when searching for just the right English word.)

It's standard practice in Denmark to induce after being two weeks overdue, so we're back for the big blast-off in the morning. Let's just hope we won't be too affected by the midwife/healthcare worker strike that's set to start Wednesday across Denmark. (No, I'm not joking.)