What else to expect when you're expecting (the end, maybe)

Tomorrow is my due date. I know it’s an approximation, a date chosen off that weird paper wheel of time and numbers the Doctor spins and squints at, but I envision it like so: My body is a big version of that game Mouse Trap, or like the beginning of Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, wherein a series of triggers and hatches and switches will soon start their progress, culminating in a giant tennis shoe attached to a lever walloping the kid's butt, sending it down down down through the least romantic canal and out into the impatient arms of me and Nuv and every one of our friends and family calling me to gently enquire HAS THE KID COME YET? WE ARE TIRED OF WAITING.
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Your Pops

My sweet bubs,

As of today, we’ve been together 271 days. I figure, by now, you know me pretty well. Lately you think I love, LOVE, being rib-kicked and cervically headbutted as soon as I crawl into bed. I can actually watch your foot as it rears back to give a good boot. Don’t think I haven’t been tempted to carve a small hole with a paring knife into my guts to grab your foot and say “EEEENOUGH.” But I love you. And I don’t fancy any home surgery, so I just watch and wince and hope to Christ you don’t get any stronger over the next 12 days.

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