Go Time

According to updated interpretations of the ancient Mayan calendar, it turns out that the world will actually be destroyed in exactly one month.  Coincidentally, that is when the Rookie is scheduled to arrive.

Given that I had done exactly nothing to prepare for this prior to last weekend, that means the time on the clock now is roughly freak-out-thirty.  With the holiday houseguests departed from our guest room, I spent the weekend reconstructing all of Finn's old baby stuff in the new nursery and carting hundreds of pounds of wood and hardware up and down two flights of stairs, while simultaneously knocking holes in the drywall and bruises on my shins.

While I now spend the new few days spackling the walls, Kitty is growing increasingly concerned about the actual arrival.  Given what happened the last time around, this is understandable.  However, we're going a different route this time.  We're using this newfangled thing called the "hospital" (sp?).  I hear all the kids are doing it these days.  Of course, now that we're leaving the house, that's a whole new set of things that we're going to have to factor in.  Exotic things like driving directions and hospital bags.  This is getting complicated.

But these are the least of Kitty's concerns.  She's just sure that this labor is going to go for 37 hours, like the last one.  Everyone we've talked to insists that almost never happens with a second time mom, after which Kitty informs them (or me, after they've left the room) how wrong they are.  I helpfully pointed out that her negativity will effectively guarantee that this is another long labor.

Once she starts talking to me again, I'm sure she'll agree.

Finn still appears to be handling the pending arrival of the baby with a positive attitude.  He spends far more time rubbing his mom's belly and talking to the Rookie than I do.  A fact certainly not lost on Kitty, though so far she's been more or less quiet about it.  Because she knows aliens living behind thin walls of skin inside peoples' bodies freak me out.  And she's accepted that.

Aside from expressing concern that his new little sister might be "toxic" (his words), Finn is now curious about how many babies mommy is going to have.  I've informed him that this is absolutely, definitively, most likely the last one that mommy is going to have, but he's requested 100 more babies.  He actually wanted more than 100, but that's as high as he can count.

I hope that doesn't happen.  But if it does, I'm going to need a LOT more spackle.