Lying still hasn’t really been in the cards for us today (and I don’t mean me). Come to think of it, neither has silence (aka the lack of crying!) She’s cute, but boy the small quiet version we took home from the hospital has been replaced with one that has a pretty repetitive (and loud) soundtrack 
It seems impossible that it has been that long, but the calendar doesn’t lie (except when it calculates Jenn’s birthday…29 again!?!). It is even harder to remember when we sit her next to some other kid. She looks so small compared to them, but so big compared to the 2 lbs 15 oz that she started with. In fact, she looks so much like a newborn that I thought maybe we should get her an agent and put her in the movies. Newborns in the movies always look like they are already 12 lbs. All we need is a little vaseline and little bulb syringe to the nostrils (it takes the mucous out and she HATES it) and she will look totally at home in the faux Operating Room.
Speaking of dates, next week marks the last date that could honestly have been her birthday. Finally, we can start looking forward, not back. We can now at least pretend that things are normal and cite her adjusted age (currently negative one week) when people ask how old she is. We could now also take the occasion to give Jenn a little surprise delivery party. Here is the plan running through my head…I have one of the grandparents take the baby for the day so Jenn can run errands etc. I follow her around quietly and, when she least expects it (I vote for somewhere near the crack dealers in Neiman-Marcus’ shoe department), I throw a waterballoon at her feet and say “UH OH! Your water broke! Let us get you to the hospital!”. Then we call the doula (so she can bring over some wine) and head back the house. I think it is important that we have a home birth in this situation as the hospital and insurance companies probably won’t “get it”. At the house, I secretly feed her a smoothie made from several large jalapeno peppers to get the proper stomach cramps going. When I tell her what I have done (assuming she has not figured it out) she can start yelling at me about the pain that I have caused, or how much she hates my beard or whatever happens that those birthing classes never showed us. I tell her that it is too late for pain medication because I can already see the baby (sitting over in the lap of the horrified grandparent). Grace, complete with the aforementioned petroleum jelly and freshly syringed nostrils, is handed to me, we all “ooh” and “ahh” and congratulate the new mother…and drink the doula’s wine.
Or, I could just buy flowers.