Today is my official due date. (Do I say Figgy's official due date? Either way, one of us is now on the verge of being late for something.)
Since Lucy was urged out at 39 weeks, 2 days, every day since last Saturday I have been more pregnant than I ever had been before. The one good thing about being sick with a cold for three weeks during your last month of pregnancy is that you don't really have a chance to get tired of being pregnant, panicked as you are that the baby might decide to make an early appearance before your body has had the good sense to get better.
But now, having made it to 40 weeks, I feel pretty good. It's interesting to think that I might reach a point where I'm actively encouraging the little guy out; so far I haven't felt that ready for a baby ever in my life.
Yesterday was Lucy's last day of daycare. We said goodbye to her lovely Aunties and the house and yard where she's been spending three days a week for just under two years. On the whole, Shaggy and I were feeling a lot more sentimental than Lucy was--as soon as she saw us coming up the walk she said, "Let's go!" Instead, we cleaned out her cubby and distributed the paintings she had made for each auntie, designating as she went.
The aunties gave her a little photo book and a jar filled with bells and wrote sweet notes about missing her imagination and singing and sunbutter smiles.
I brought my camera with me, thinking I might take some farewell pictures, but we were out the door too quickly for that. So Shaggy captured us doing a little fairy dance instead.
