I am 31 weeks today, 9 weeks to go. One more week and I can call myself “8 months pregnant”, which will hopefully earn me extra sympathy and chocolate from friends and strangers. I’m not any huger than previously reported but it hardly matters at this point. Nothing is ever going back to the way it was pre-baby. I found a stretch mark on my knee (I didn’t know that was possible) and I have cellulite on my arms.

Everyone wants great thinks for their children. They want them to be president, or cure cancer, or end world hunger, or win an Olympic gold medal for the decathlon. My current dream is my son becomes a celebrity dermatologist who invents a miracle smoothing and fading cream and gives me a lifetime supply for free.

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