Zero Hour.

Thinking: Wouldn’t it be cool for Speck to be born on his anticipated arrival day? We’d better hurry—only a few hours left… (Though would I mind a short labor?)

Also: If my water broke AT THIS VERY MOMENT, we couldn’t possibly leave until I filled the dishwasher, vacuumed the rugs, sent some e-mails to coworkers about stuff that I planned to tackle on Monday or on half-day Tuesday (yes, unless otherwise diverted, I’m planning to work both days next week), washed our bedding, and did something—anything—to tidy that repulsive bathroom. Perhaps I should start now? Maybe after the leftover Thai that Big Daddy is reheating… At least Speck’s room is clean: floor swept and mopped, extraneous articles removed (and resting comfortably in hallway), tags cut off, and diapers and clothing washed, dried, and somewhat organized.

(And additionally: I know we’ve eaten a lot of crap in the last few weeks, but isn’t a pizza or some other celebratory meal in order for marking the occasion of a due date? Particularly if it’s delivered and we needn’t traverse the snowy, blowy terrain?)

We're ready. Bring it on.