In which I forgo all attempts at complete paragraphs in order to complain more freely

Dear Frijole,

You are getting big.  Very, very big. 

I can't wait to meet you, but I am getting uncomfortable.  Very, very uncomfortable.

I think you have a small marching band in there with you.

Turning over in bed is a challenge, bending over to do anything...well, forget it.  Getting close to the sink or stove is impossible. 

Everything makes me feel suddently claustrophobic.  Even (especially?) maternity pants. 

I am trying to pack this apartment.  We have very little room to begin with, and no room to put anything once it is packed and the cat is underfoot every single second and I start to cry at the drop of a hat because everything suddenly feels hard and overwhelming.

I haven't had many cravings with you, but lately all I want is sandwiches.  So that is what we are having.  Sandwiches of all types!  Turkey, ham, BLTs, club sandwiches, egg salad sandwiches.  I want them all the time.  At least they are economical. 

On the positive side, your grandma got us a camera so we can take lots of photos and videos from you.  Your father thinks it is hilarious to tease me about taping your birth.  I promise him it will be the last thing he ever does.

A cute two-bedroom apartment has opened up two blocks away from us.  The bedrooms are a good size and it is in our price range and I want it so badly that I can barely think about it.

Once we get a rocking chair, you and I are going to spend some serious time in it.  De-stressing.  Maybe it's time for that prenatal massage from auntie TK.

Love,

Mama