39 Weeks.

These last few weeks are definitely the most difficult. And not just because of the obvious discomfort, but because of just about everything: the useless commentary, the endless inquisition, the hope and disappointment that nothing happened overnight, and the unfortunate false economy of a due date.

Today marks 39 weeks.

At lunch, a new staff member had the audacity to ask me if I’d started “bleeding” yet. The words cocked and loaded on my tongue ready to fire back were not professional, so instead I opted for a high-pitched, “nope.” My friends know I’m an open book, but even with those of us willing to share and answer questions freely, there IS a line. Even I know this. Clearly she has no clue about such a line. And not only was it inappropriate, this is a new colleague, one whom I just met a few weeks ago. Sorry dude, but I’m not going to discuss, with YOU of all people, what or what isn’t coming out of my undercarriage.

Some of the other moronic questions I’ve been asked and their related answers:

“When is this baby coming?”  (I haven’t consulted my crystal ball yet, but as soon as I do, I’ll get back to you.)

“How are you feeling?”  (Pregnant.)

“Are you still here?”   (No, I’m just a figment of your imagination; I’m actually giving birth right as we speak.)

Why. Why, for the love of all that is pure, do people insist on asking the dumbest questions? Or saying really asinine things like, “I think she’s going to make you wait.”  Clearly spoken by someone who is not super pregnant, or has never been, or has forgotten what it’s like to be this pregnant. You just don’t say that to someone in my skin. It’s not cool, even if you think it’s being funny. Because folks like me walking around at 39 weeks are wishing with all our might that something happens, like, yesterday, and the idea that this baby could be late is enough to bring us to tears.

And while we’re at it, let me save you the trouble of suggesting all the ways to start labor. Trust me, I know them. I’ve tried them, I am trying them. To the woman at lunch who inquired about what is in my underpants, newsflash – what you suggested about having sex – OLD NEWS.

To the blessed FEW who don't give shitty unwanted advice, THANK YOU. Thank you to my friend who did corroborate that even sleep-deprived, she felt better with the baby outside of her. Thank you to my friend who wrote in a card, "Don't believe all the hype. Yeah, there's some lost sleep but it doesn't last forever - you'll be fine." To those women: I love you.

Well-wishers, please just smile. Just smile and say hello. Talk to me about normal everyday happenings. There is nothing you can say to me that will make me feel any better, or will ease my discomfort. Save your, “welcome to parenthood,” commentary. It’s lame and completely serves no purpose and there is zero comedic value. There is nothing you can say to make me stop the endless crawl in my brain that’s on the following permanent loop:

“We’re ready to meet you little girl, and we hope it’s soon. Maybe tonight.”