I'm nearly 31 weeks pregnant now, only a little more than two months to my due date. Since I'm due around January 17, I have a pretty convenient countdown of the days: whatever anyone says on the news is the amount of time until we have a new president. It's a good estimate for me. I think yesterday it was 68 days. Whoa.
As the baby gets bigger I'm definitely thinking about it as more of it's own person. It seems like it's a constant companion. The baby goes to stupid work meetings with me, cooks dinner with me, listens to NPR in the car with me, that kind of thing. It's really comforting. I feel like I will miss it slightly once he or she is actually out in the world.
Lately Mike and I have been talking about how we should read to the kid. Usually when we say this, we're sitting on the couch, and the reading materials at hand tend to be J. Crew catalogs or Newsweek. I'm pretty sure "Lightweight wool. Dry clean. Sizes 0-12" is not exactly a riveting bedtime story, though we did get some appreciative kicks after an article about the demise of the GOP in Florida.
Last night Mike was a little more determined and we got out a few of the board books we've received so far, and some of the poetry anthologies I've collected over the years. It made me so happy and emotional to have Mike reading to our baby. Except that he kept cracking up at how cheesy Robert Frost can be. And the Dylan Thomas choice was a little more depressing than something you'd normally read a kid. But we had a nice time.