Oh my ever-loving sandwiches.  Look at the calendar.  Just look at it.  Where in the world did November go? How did we get to Thanksgiving?  I feel like I slipped into a wormhole, bonked my head on the side, and now I’m coming to with a nasty wormhole-hangover.

In some kind of prankish turn of the norm, time seems to be speeding up.  I always thought ten months of pregnancy (nearly a year, for goodness’ sake!) would seem like an eternity.  I was so very wrong as it’s become abundantly clear that ten months is no time at all.

I keep looking into our nursery, surveying the walls that need to be painted, the crib that needs bedding, the clothes that need a dresser, and feel something best compared to panic.  Squishy will be here any frigging day now and I shall have to scrounge around for twee little socks to put on his delicious little feet!  He won’t be pleased if he comes home to a non-colorful nursery and a naked crib, will he?

Wes assures me we have time.  He always looks at my frenzied eyes and backs away slowly to avoid startling me into a rampage, muttering platitudes like, “We have three months.  We have plenty of time.”

He does his best to be accommodating, but there’s really only so much one man can do in a weekend and there’s really more than enough Crazy to go around.  I’ve kept it contained for a good long while but it’s bursting out from around the seams.

What he doesn’t know is we actually have no time at all.  Because of the wormholes.  All I know is that if I wake up tomorrow and it’s February and I’m in labor?  I will grab a roller and paint that room myself.  Then I’ll have a baby.  If nothing else, his walls will be painted, gosh dang it.