When you get to this point in your pregnancy where you don't call someone in a few days, or you miss a swim lesson, or you don't update your blog in a week, people start assuming things. Like you've had a baby. 
Well, nope, the belly and I are still here, thriving and dealing with the simple things in life like standing up without groaning and waddling to the phone that you left across the house before it goes to voicemail.
(side note, I'm a little late with this image, I'm actually 35 weeks as of tomorrow)
While I feel like I do nothing but talk about my procreation, I realize that I have not mentioned a very important part of the whole process - how I'm gonna' get this kid out of me. Maybe it's because a little personal, maybe because I had not quite made up my mind, or maybe it's because it may require me to type the word "vaginal".
For those of you who haven't heard how my precious little monster entered this world 3 and a half years ago, I'll keep it brief. Pregnancy induced hypertension which lead to an induction at 39 weeks, which lead to hyper stimulating contractions about 3 hours later, which lead to fetal distress, which lead to a get this kid out of me NOW emergency c-section. Flash forward to 3 years later and one of my first doctors appointments when the Dr casually mentions "You know, just because you had a c-section last time doesn't mean you need to have one this time.."
Hhhmm.. a choice! Something else to spend the next 30 or so weeks OBSESSING about other than strollers (Joovy Ultralight), gliders (Dutailier, duh), names (tba at a later date), 
and the fact that I really, really want Doritos (cool ranch) right this very second.
To me, the most important part of the entire process is to leave the hospital with a healthy baby in my arms. Not really how she gets here. But the thought of avoiding major abdominal surgery does sound nice.. After months of obsessing, scouring the internet and reading books with names like "Don't cut me again!" (a book that actually almost did the opposite of what the author intended, with labor stories that start off "after 34 hours of labor at 43 weeks pregnant.."), and Dr's appointments with lists of questions a mile long, I made the decision to attempt to push this little chica out.. of uh, my chica. (Nice visual, huh? You're welcome.)
And let me tell you - I'm scared to death.
I have this perfect plan in my head of how the big day is going to go. It starts the day AFTER a Dr's appt where I'm told that I'm already 2cm dilated and 50% effaced, which causes me to quickly get waxed and my roots touched-up (and of course, my girls get me right in). I start the day with a mani/pedi, where the girl DOES NOT make a comment about my size or how tired I look. After returning home, I start getting minor contractions. I do some of my prenatal yoga moves and sit and relax and then jump into the shower where my water breaks (see, no mess!). Excited and nervous, I put the "Lucas Plan of Action" in place by calling my parents. They jump into the car and head down from LA, shocked and thrilled at the lack of traffic and arriving 2 hours later to take care of Lucas. At this point I'm having contractions about 10 minutes apart and we head to the hospital. We check into L&D and wow! I'm 5cm already! I get my room, the epidural comes a little while later and within about 4 hours of labor and 30 minutes of pushing (and just enough time to brush my hair and reapply my lipstick), I get to help pull out my baby, put her on my chest and VOILA!! We have baby!
I know.. I know.. you are laughing at me right now. But hey, its my fantasy birth plan and I'm sticking with it for the time being.
And no, I'm not smoking crack while pregnant.