The 39th Week of Pregnancy.

The faint and weary-hearted need not apply.

The blood.  The sweat.  The tears.

All worth it?  You bet.

But the truth of the matter is...the final days aren't easy.

I'm tired. More tired then I've ever felt in my life.

I'm big. I've begun to have tunnel vision while passing mirrors in my house these days.  It's quite frankly scary if and when I accidentally happen to catch a profile shot of myself.  I've started closing my eyes when the nurse weighs me at the doctor's office.  But even more than the superficial "big" I feel these days...is the the way I've logistically lost control of manuvering myself through everyday physical tasks that's taking it's toll.  Standing up.  Sitting down.  Getting in and out of the car.  You laugh...but with the belly I'm toting around these days...even the simplest of moves are a challenge to complete.

I'm hot. It seems the August humidity finally decided to show up just in time to laugh in my face as I wade through the final days of my inability to stabalize the temperature in my house and my body.  Poor Daddy Perks.  Tonight he went to bed in sweatpants and a long-sleeved thermal shirt as I stripped down to a t-shirt with the fan on full blast 2 feet away from our bed.  And my pregnancy "glow"...these days it's more of a look that warrants somebody saying..."can somebody get that girl a glass of water?"

I'm swollen. I'm retaining water like a wet beach towel and my face, fingers and feet have given new definition to the word puffy.  It's pitiful really.  And when I'm out in public, I get the looks to prove it.  I'm no longer getting the "isn't pregnancy wonderful?" smiles from perfect strangers.  Oh no.  Now I've grown more accustomed to receiving the "oh you poor thing" pity looks from men and women alike.  Sympathy looks from the women who've been pregnant before.  And sympathy looks from the men who also at one point in their lives wore sweatpants and thermal shirts to bed in August.

To sum it all up...

I'm ready.