So Faith and I went to the doctor this week with a fair sense of excitement, because we knew the doctor would check her dilation. Well, to put it optimistically, 1 cm down, 9 to go!

I'm not sure what parenthood holds. Sure, I expect things to change a little. You know, perhaps I won't sleep straight through the night for at least another 20 years. And maybe we'll be perpetually broke 'til kingdom come. Fine, my gray hairs will likely increase exponentially.

The thing is, I'm beginning to realize that George/Amani/Caleb is about to knock us for a loop. Not only because he's going to be unbelievably handsome.
And not just because he's going to possess the world's greatest soccer skills.

But I'm finding myself complaining to Faith because he's not yet here! Each day I stick my face to his face--err, her belly--and (excercising my parental powers) command him to come out.

He continues to deny us, needless to say.

It's only when Faith reminds us that we're in our last days of relative freedom for the next few decades that I realize that I actually may be begging this boy to go back once he gets here! So if he's doing this to us before even arriving, imagine life once he gets here!

(Gulp)