LG, I'm tired.
Now please know that I love you and your hiccups and your swinging from my right rib by your toes, and I love how you smash my lungs and bladder on an alternating schedule, and I love how you've widened my body to a degree that a drunken man at Doyle's Pub called me a "fat-bottomed girl" on Saturday night.
(I didn't realize he was speaking to me until after I was already in the bathroom otherwise he would have been a fat-lipped bar band wannabe. Your father said he would have bailed me out of jail. That's love.)
But carrying around this extra weight, which we describe to Maddie as "carrying a bowling ball that moves in a backpack you can never take off," is wearing me out. I'm winded almost all the time. I climb the stairs – winded. I put on socks – winded. I put on shoes – breathless cursing. I may wear my rubber rain boots every day until you arrive.
So I'm ready to meet you, as soon as you're ready, of course. Don't make an appearance before your brain is ready to go, because you're in for a lifetime of remarks about what I endured to bring you into this world and you'll need to be able to make some snappy comebacks.
You're a George, after all.
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