Dear Brooke Allen

Your mommy is miserable.

In fact, your mommy thinks she may die before you are born.

You dropped on Sunday, which adds to a list of new problems I'm experiencing.

My hips hurt. My back aches in new places. I'm waddling like a penguin. My feet look like beach balls.

Your daddy thinks it's funny to poke my feet and my ankles because his fingerprint stays indented.

I don't find it so funny.

Dr. Heaton said on Friday that if you don't make any progress by my appointment this Friday, that we're going to set a date to evict you.

I know you're extremely comfortable in there. Who wouldn't be? It's dark and warm and you exert little to no effort for food. I think you know as soon as you are born, it's going to be cold and sterile and you won't be attached to your mommy anymore.

I don't want to force you out, but it's looking like that might be a possibility.

So come on, Brooke Allen.

Let's move it along.

People ask me every stinking day when you're coming.

My response is "whenever she's good and ready."

Your room is finished. You have a nice crib to rest in, a rocking chair to fuss in, and lots and lots of diapers. You've got a stroller, a pack n play, and tons of clean clothes as of Sunday. I worked hard to make everything perfect for you.

Your GiGi has her bag packed and she takes it with her to work every day, just in case you show up during the day time.

All your grandparents have email instructions on what to do when we call them to say you're on your way.

Your daddy now checks his phone constantly while he's at work to see if I've called to tell him to rush home. He's also given me his training officer's and the precinct's phone numbers in case I can't get in touch with him.

See Brooke Allen?

Everyone is ready to meet you.

But you're like you're mommy, and you'd just assume to keep everyone waiting so you can make your grand appearance at just the right time.

We're waiting. Come on when you're ready.