As the weeks skim by, Abby inches ever closer to the self-imposed exile of bed-ridden-inity. The days are getting tougher, and her tummy is getting larger. The little ones are growing and stretching at the flesh pouch walls. To the touch it doesn't feel like a soft, supple pillow anymore. It's more like a water balloon, filled to the point just before popping.

You know, like when you have your little sister fill the water balloons to go throw at people, but she's not very good at it. Each balloon looks great and ready to soak an unwitting parent. But then you go to pick it up and find she's filled them with hot water, "Because the cold water was making my fingers hurt." Wuss. Anyhow, the hot water makes all the balloons stick together. So when you try to pick one of the overfilled,piping hot projectiles... they break. All of them, and the hot, balloon-soup sloshes out of the shallow baking dish (who uses a baking dish to carry water balloons? Seriously.) and down the front of your shirt. Wait, maybe that was the plot the whole time.

But I'm off topic. There are two babies in there, and they're running out of space. I have this mental image of the two coming out with flat sides from being pressed together for so long.





"Which one's yours?"
"The girls in Row 2 Column C and D"





All told, things are progressing very well. The pre-baby routine is well in place and ready to be shattered by the unexpected, yet also predicted, foibles of parenthood.

You can see the kicks and punches through her shirt now, and it's really trippy.