My poor, fat feet. You might not be able to tell from this picture, but they're quite fat.
Actually, I took this picture a week ago. They've only gotten fatter since. R is vaguely afraid that they will pop when he rubs them. I've taken to wrapping them tightly in a bandanna, to help squeeze the fluid out of them. Exercise (or possibly the act of squeezing my feet into shoes) seems to help, but only for a little while. They just look ridiculous.
It really is a waiting game around here. Assuming the baby doesn't show up early, I've got two more weeks of work before I start maternity leave. Two weeks until my due date. Two weeks until the deadline for my project at work. Gah. So I just work, and exercise, and wait out the comments of how I look like I'm going to pop. Really, it isn't necessary to comment on the size of my belly every day, people at work. It doesn't really change much in the hours in between.
I guess I'm just a little grumpy. I'm ready to be non-pregnant. I'd like her to show up sooner, rather than later, so that R and I get a little more time to know her before my mom arrives (she originally agreed to change her ticket date if the baby was late, but has apparently forgotten about said agreement). Bit of drama at work, but can't really share that. Bit of drama with the HOA (we never got a copy of the rules, but apparently you can only have two plants on your walkway, the fascists), but hopefully they'll be appeased with a reduction in the number of plants. I don't think I can trim my garden down to compliance, but less flagrant violation of the rules should take the heat off until we move out. If nothing else, I'll play the pregnant lady card. Apparently we make people uncomfortable.