Dear Ninja

Dearest Ninja Babe,
You are nearly cooked. In one week, you are "full-term," the magical time when mommies on birth boards go completely nuts and start drinking castor oil and arguing over non-medical inductions and eating spicy food and having sex whether they feel like it or not (don't forget to ask me what sex is in a few years, I know we are both excited for that conversation), all in a vain attempt to get those babies OUT. Because honestly, even the most ethereal earth goddess of fertility and maternal instincts hits a wall at some point, and that point is right about now.

On the one hand, you have shown yourself to be advanced in all areas, including hair growth, kicking strength and speed, umbilical cord grabbing and chewing, and cervical punching. If you feel like coming out in about a week from now, I'm certain you will continue to excel in life and I will be happy to assist you on your exit strategy. I may be projecting, but I don't think you like being in there any more than I like walking around with what feels like a broken pelvis. We practiced swaddling in our infant class and I could almost hear you laughing at the very idea that you would tolerate being restricted and repressed against your will in such a way. Something tells me you are going to need your wide open spaces, even as a tiny, angry Ninja infant.

Here's the thing, though. You can come in one week and I will just high five you for being so on top of it. On the other hand, I could probably use a few extra weeks. I'm doing this thing called "nesting," but in my typical insane fashion, I've completely torn the apartment (yeah, we don't have a house. Sorry.) apart and am reorganizing everything we own to make more room for you. Oh, and we bought a giant bed to save our marriage from death-by-horrible-mattress, so now there's even less room for you. Don't worry, we have a carseat, diapers, a bassinet and enough outfits to get you through a week, probably. I really hope you think the furry giraffe sleeper I got you is as hilarious and awesome as I do. You're a human baby, dressed up as a giraffe! Great, right? I wish all of your outfits were animal or food costumes.

So there you go. Come when you want, but I'm warning you. Anything past 41 weeks and your life will just be the muffled sounds of me, in bed, eating chocolate and pad thai and watching Netflix. I'm NOT drinking castor oil.


Aw, look at how cute you are!! Kicking yourself in the face. Keep doing your thing, sweet baby.

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