Today I am officially seven months pregnant, just two months away from my February 13 due date. I’ve been trying to convince myself that those months will fly by before I’ve had time to notice, but I can’t help looking back two months and thinking just how long it’s been since mid-October, and then I know that I’m kidding myself. I’m trying to prepare myself, too, for going even longer, after the marathon, eleven-days-past-due tribulation that was my last pregnancy. After Lydia’s having come a week early, then Tage nearly two weeks ahead of schedule, I was so not ready for Petra to take such a long time coming, but ready or not, that’s how it went. These days I’m just telling myself that as long as the baby comes before Leap Day, we’ll be golden. I know a lot of people think that Leap Day birthdays are cool, I see them as nothing more than a big pain in the ass that I’d just as soon avoid.

And though I’m afraid of jinxing myself by mentioning it, there is a little part of me that would like the baby to hold off making an appearance until March. It’s a silly thing, but I think it would give a nice pattern to our birthdays: first we have Olof in January, then (maybe) the baby in March, me in April, Petra in July, Tage in August, and Lydia in September. If you look closely, you’ll see that we’d have one birthday month, then one month off, then two birthday months, two months off, and finally, three birthday months, and three months off, before starting over again. Like I said, silly, but it’s the kind of thing that appeals to me. (I grant you, of course, that it’s likely to look much less appealing if late February does indeed roll around and I’ve still got no baby!)