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By the time one reaches the third trimester, pretty much everyone is tired of you being pregnant. Not you of course, you were way over it pretty much the minute you started gaining weight and wanting to barf every waking moment. And you were WAY over it when you realized now everyone around you is taking inventory of your body and the way it’s been changing over time. And you were beyond over it when they felt the need to discuss it with you, as if you weren’t already aware.

No, the third trimester is like a new year’s countdown. Only instead of a giant ball of confetti exploding over happy drunk people, it’s way messier and less likely to induce songs and kissing. My only hope is that I go into labor here at work, because I work at the hospital where I hope to deliver. I figure once my water breaks, I’ll waddle across the parking lot, squeeze the kiddo out and be back to my desk by lunch.

The idea of going into labor a second time leaves more fears and far less romantic notions than the crippling unknown of the first delivery. Very realistic concerns such as, who will pick my first born child up from daycare? Will anyone be around to witness the birth besides me and the medical staff? Is anyone going to bring me my cell phone and eyeliner? You know, the important things. Only time will tell.

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