Tweet So, twenty-seven it is. Weeks, that is. That means I have thirteen left. Thirteen doesn't sound too bad, but then I do that thing where I multiply it by seven, because that's how many days are in each one of those thirteen weeks I still have to endure, and I come up with ninety-one. Ninety-one: now, that's downright rediculous.
I'm told Cletus the Fetus is now about the size of a 2-pound pot roast. Knowing this disturbs me because when I look down at my Baby Mound (we surpassed 'Baby Bump' quite awhile ago) I know there is no possible way this could fit into any crockpot.
As tempted as I am to issue an eviction notice to the hyper rockstar that's constantly jamming out in my womb, I guess I'm committed to my original 40-week lease. (Cletus has the option of vacating the premises earlier, but must give at least seven days notice so I can prepare. And my internal organs best be in the same shape they were when s/he arrived!)