Now that a few of my friends have already had their babies, I am even more anxious for our little one’s birth. Not that I am ready yet. We’ve still got work to do in the nursery, decisions to make about pediatricians, and all sorts of other things. We have already begun to amass quite a wardrobe for him, primarily thanks to the largess of the good, wealthy people of Marin County, California who generously dispose of their outgrown name-brand baby clothes in a “free-box” where my sister has been making regular visits to select out the cutest items available. Combined with the generous hand-me-downs from local friends and gifts from relatives, our yet-to-be-born child has over 20 onesies, and more pairs of jeans than me. He will be one well-dressed kiddo.

My clothing options these days are a bit more limited, but I haven’t quite busted out of most of my maternity wear, which is a very good thing. Except for when I start to wonder if I should be bigger and get nervous about the baby’s growth. It’s a funny thing how every comment can be construed as negative or worrisome when you’re pregnant. No woman ever really wants to be told, “wow, you’re huge!” but at the same time, when people tell me that I look small it still doesn’t feel like a compliment. This is probably the only time in my life when being called small is not unequivocally a good thing.

I suppose you all can judge for yourself; here’s a picture of me at 32 weeks.