I hate making up titles

My place is clean again.  I had to ignore all requests to play Candy Land and monster trucks on Saturday (there was so much Fresh Beat Band - OMG, it's horrible - worse than Gabba Gabba even), but our laundry is done and our floors are mopped/vacuumed and all the toys are in their rightful places.  (Yay for not tripping over race tracks and big wheels in the kitchen!)

It's a less depressing place to be when it's clean - mostly if I'm not at work, I'm there because I have no life.  So, when it's a mess, I get sadfaced.

(Insert smooth transition here)

As I previously mentioned, my doc wants me to deliver at 39 weeks.  I was told after I had Anabel that I should not deliver after 37 weeks because of the type of c-section I had with her and the chance for uterine rupture/possible death if I go into labor again.

Last night I started to freak out about living alone and going to 39 weeks.  Every neurotic, dramatic bone in my body feels like I'll go into labor before that c-section is scheduled.  I convinced myself that my only hope is going into labor at work - 15 minutes from my hospital surrounded by people who know how to drive.  Pray, people, pray.

Oh, and Gavin?  Not so lazy as I previously thought.  I think maybe he's just smaller than Silas or positioned differently?  I don't know, but he's busy as all get out these days.  Flipping and kicking and squirming and being generally obnoxious to my bladder - just like his brother before him.

And my Silas asks about his brother all the time now.  Like he's maybe decided it's okay if we keep the little brother.  So, there's that.

They are going to be quite the pair.  

Pair.  OMG.  Pair.  Like, two of them.  As in, I'm getting dangerously close to being seriously outnumbered.  

But aren't they going to be the freaking cutest pair of brothers ever to drive a momma crazy?