The day is now, the time is nigh, now where the hell is PartyPie? Yes. That’s right. I’m talking to you. The one on the inside. I know I have sworn not to turn this site into some kind of baby-blog-happy-nappy-cutefest, but I feel that on this date - the date on which all most calculations say that you are fully cooked, I can let discipline slide and write something to you here. A kind of online negotiation. Offer you a few suggestions…

If you decide to turn up tomorrow, which is what I would prefer, as I happen to think that having the birthdate 08/01/08 is pretty cool, I will not only be pleasantly charmed at your obedience, but I promise to remember that baby-on-the-outside sleep deprivation must be infinitely preferable to baby-on-the-inside-I-can’t-recall-ever-being-both-prone-and-comfortable.

And although I am destined to probably play the role of a 24/7 milk bar, I am comforted by the fact that the small amounts of sleep I may be lucky enough to achieve will not be hampered by feeling like a humpback whale trying to perform hapless callisthenics.

I tried to sleep outside today on my new red banana lounge, and the reason I knew that M was NOT watching out the window was the absent sound of hysterical laughter. The banana lounge and I finally agreed to differ. We are having a trial separation.

My need for sleep relates directly to the degree to which I become a satanic gargoyle in the mid to late afternoons. Nanna naps are key. Unfortunately there are some days where I feel peachy-fine, like yesterday, and can weave on to about 10pm sans nap - whereupon I toss and turn before finally getting up at about 2am to feed on krill.

Thus, the next day begins with gargoyle overtones, as I can’t sleep in due to aforementioned inability to be comfy. This is old news to the previously pregnant - and how witty of biology to make sure one is so thoroughly SICK of one’s status that one is willing to undergo almost any degree of torture to escape it. So, PartyPie, here it is - I exhort you to hurry the hell up and to ignore that ridiculous statistic that only five percent of babies arrive on their due date.

I am aware that genetically, you have a 50/50 chance of either being about nine days late (now that was hard to type, let alone contemplate) both due to my own personal arrival into the world and my generally relaxed feelings about punctuality) or about nine days early - which is directly represented by when M thinks we need to leave the Trailer to get anywhere ‘on time’.

However, as you didn’t arrive five days ago, I’m hoping for a blend of the above and that tomorrow will not only be my Aunt-in-Binginwarri’s-Birthday - but your birthday as well. I may even provide a cake.

Yours Sincerely,
Your Mothership and Current Vessel of Choice