I’ve reached the point where I’m officially tired of being pregnant. I’ve still got six weeks to go, give or take, but already I’m counting down the days (which are going by very s-l-o-w-l-y, if anyone’s curious). And speaking of curious, I’m in a bit of a curious position this time around, hoping for once — as ready as I am for this babe to be on the outside — that I don’t go into labor more than a day or two ahead of my due date.

See, here in Sweden, it’s the year that a kid is born that determines which year he or she starts school. My due date is January 5, meaning that there’s a very real possibility the baby will come in 2010 and, therefore, be the very youngest kid in the class, We’d rather avoid that, if possible, but it’s not as simple as merely waiting an extra year to start, something I’d not hesitate at all to do in the States.

Over here, however, the year one was born is very important, culturally and socially. For instance, a good many extra-curricular activities — none of which is tied to school — are arranged by birth year, so that on Junior’s hypothetical soccer team ten years from now, all the kids born in 2010 would play in one group, while the 2011s would play in another. If kids are going to play with their peers, then, they need to be in the “correct” school year. When I ask Lydia how old an acquaintance of hers is, she will invariably answer by telling me what year the person was born. Interestingly, this importance can last far beyond childhood — it’s every bit as common for an adult to tell you “I’m a 75-er” as it is for him to say he’s 35. Birth year seems to be part of the way Swedes identify themselves, with much the same importance we Americans give to the year we graduated from high school.

So, yeah, I’ve spent the past six or seven months — I like to worry in advance, obviously — dreading this baby arriving ahead of schedule. However, I’m finding that the more pregnant I get, the easier it is to convince myself that being the youngest in class wouldn’t be all bad. Either way, I suppose, it’s not up to me, and I should probably just settle in for the long haul and stop thinking so much.