Yesterday I turned to Elisa and spoke the truest words I ever spoke:

"Damn I'm tired of you being pregnant."

Which earned me an evil glare and a littany of all the woes she is currently enduring: back ache, leg cramps, extreme weariness, nosebleeds, swollen feet, forgetfullness, and all sorts of cramps and spasms.

"You think you're sick of being pregnant?" she thundered as I quivered under the full force of her rage.

But I am sick of it. But not because I'm under that much discomfort. I'm become increasingly adept at tuning out the complaints. It's because I don't like seeing her in that much discomfort. Indeed, she's been pregnant almost a year now. She got pregnant for the first time September 2002, miscarried in Novemb er, and was pregnant again in February. So yeah, we had a three-month period where she wasn't pregnant, but seriously, it wasn't exactly party time for us.

So pregnancy and babies have been on our minds for a long time, and we've had enough. I'm tired seeing Elisa being harrassed by the demons of pregnancy, and I'm tired of having to listen to her rhapsodies about bowel movements.

I'm ready to have the darn baby.

And so is Elisa, who is looking more and more like a Macy's Day parade balloon every day. Once upon a time we used to marvel at the wonders of a kicking baby. Now Elisa says, with a weary face,

"The baby's foot is pushing against my spine again."

And I think, "frickin' baby... get off mamy's spine!"

Sometimes the baby's foot pushes up against her rib cage. Either way, that sounds both painful and creepy. And while we still get baby kicks, we can also see the entire baby's body as it shifts around insider her. It's so frickin' big. It clearly is running out of space, and needs to come out.

But we still have two months to go. Damn...