No. Not my birthday month. If I was born in July I would have been pissed, thank you mother and father for accidentally getting pregnant with me at the appropriate time. July is hot and sticky and muggy and filled with the sounds of A/C condensers humming that makes everything feel like you're living in an airplane cabin during take-off. Unfortunately, both of my parents were not the recipients of well-timed accidents and were born in July; thus July usually meant some kind of celebratory thing outside. Outside in July means heat and sweat and nothing else. And so the universal constant of fucking with me is again confirmed in scientific terms because the coming baby will also be born in July. That sucks even more because if I was the one with the July birthday I could at least choose a celebration that does not spend the entire day underneath a scorching sun trying to brave the inevitable sunburn and subsequent Lidocaine baths. Now I will be at the mercy of a small person who will not give two shits about another's comfort or wants for at least a decade. And here's the thing, I couldn't be more excited.
Just let me have my moment. I know this excitement will run its course in due time, but right now, all of the anticipation of poop and puke and lack of normal sleep patterns and mind-numbing dearth of energy, I'm having a hard time containing my joy. And it's the first time I've felt like that since we found out we were pregnant some 30 weeks ago. This is not naivety (mostly).
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