This is when you look blearily at your lab partner, ignore the Tom Hanks-shaped mole on his neck and think: We'll probably never see each other again. Wonder if we should bang it out.
This is when you take up smoking. (Metaphorically).
This is crunch time, son. Extended time off to concentrate our cleaning-building-painting-tossing efforts. It feels a heckuva lot like senior year finals.
Chuck has been on vacation for a week and he's been chiseling away at a daunting to-do list. (We didn't even bother listing chores, we just wrote EVERYTHING on it). This is remarkable because we are both the kind of people who wander around Menards, slide our fingers down the spine of a new bedroom door, consider the cost, whether it is capable of keeping the cats from having a spontaneous Pampers party, nod and say: "Yes. We should get that. Tomorrow. Tuesday at the latest. Now let's figure out what color to delay painting her room."
Now we're operating under a new mantra: "We've just got to pull the trigger."
As in: "We'll order the crib on Friday," Chuck said. "We've just got to pull the trigger on that."
There have been trips to the dump, a bedroom cleared of its contents, doors and paint purchased, the introduction of a garbage can with an actual lid, shelves built and a Belinda Carlisle poster hung in the garage.
Now I'm on vacation, too, so watch out to-do list. I'm coming at you (slowly, breathing heavily ... and with no ability to bend over).
My boobs have burst well beyond their potential, but remain small in comparison to my bulging belly therefore nullifying any joy I might have taken from teetering near the C zone. A few days ago I tried wearing a bra-bra rather than a sports bra and was alarmed by the visual of two sagging milk sacks when I looked in the mirror.
I was confused by a status update by a high school acquaintance who wrote that her surprise baby turned a year old.
"Did she not know she was pregnant?" I wondered and used modern technology to see what was going on a year ago and whether it was possible that she had whatever is the adult version of a bathroom stall baby during prom.
Turns out she knew she was pregnant, so Chuck and I started aging her baby from birth to present day in three month increments -- again using modern technology. At nine months we were greeted by an image of a toddler using Fisher Price toys as a ladder to gain access to the TV.
At one year she was digging in the refrigerator either for the bottle of milk or the box of leftover pizza.
Tomorrow I am in a wedding. In some countries this would automatically qualify me for the Olympic decathlon.
"You aren't going to go into labor during the wedding, are you?" asked the groomsman who will be holding me upright in 4-inch heels during aisle times.
"No, no," I told him. "I'm not due for two months. ... But if I do, it's probably going to ruin your shoes."