Well here we are. Down to lucky number 13. (13 days until I get on outta here, that is.) And it appears that I finally have Mom on my side in my mission to abandon the womb, so maybe we can even get this welcome party started a little early after all, eh? We did a bit of bonding in the park today, and I think I may have finally convinced her that, while sitting on the couch for hours at a time may be a good preemptive counterattack on the battle with exhaustion that I have in store for her in a few weeks, it's really not doing either one of us a whole lot of good right now. And by either one of us, I mostly mean me. I mean, it doesn't matter how much she rests now, does it? It's not like she can save up all that relaxation for later, or something. So she may as well get a move on. After all, the sooner she can get me out of here, the sooner she can get those 18 years or so of sleepless nights with me out of the way, right? And then she can relax all she wants. (Unless, of course, she decides to grow a little sibling for me sometime down the line or something. But I certainly won't be petitioning to share my limelight with any tiny costars anytime soon--or ever, most likely. So, should she find herself in that situation, she can just suck it up and deal with the extra years of tiresome child-rearing. Definitely not my fault.)
Anyway, we ended up taking a pretty intense stroll through Forest Park. I couldn't really see much of anything (as usual), but it seemed like a pretty nice day. Sunny, anyway. I probably wouldn't have noticed much if I could have seen my surroundings anyhow. I was pretty busy concentrating on the escape route and trying, with every swing of her hips, to creep my way into her pelvis. I thought we were making some progress for a while, but then she had a seat by the water and I couldn't help myself--I slowly floated back up. I groped and grasped at anything stable to hold my position, but no such luck. You have no idea what it's like to be an almost-human buoy, but I'll tell you, it's a real buzz kill when all you want to do is sink. Maybe we'll try again tomorrow. Maybe someone (ah-em, Mom...) should start praying to the God of Gravity or whatever. Or maybe, we should talk to someone in Chile about borrowing that sweet rescue capsule. (Is it not ridiculous that human beings can rescue 33 of their peers from a mine half a mile deep in less than 24 hours, but I've been begging for help for weeks now to escape through a mere 5 inches of tunnel, and no one has a solution for me? Not to mention that those guys were only trapped for 10 weeks underground compared to my 38 weeks of sloshing around in this sticky sack. Somehow I don't see the logic. C'mon people, I want my capsule. Camp Hope has a new zip code.)
Well here's hoping that one of her other ideas to speed up nature works out. So far she's been sipping on some raspberry tea and swallowing something called evening primrose oil. Thank goodness I can't taste anything she ingests because I can't say I like the sound of all those plants coming through the tube. Mom's tastes must be more refined than mine. (Not too hard to believe, I suppose, considering I have no teeth and spend my time gargling amniotic fluid. I guess you could say, I haven't really had a chance to train my palate.) Anyway, we might not have any luck, but anything is worth a shot, I guess.
Still, regardless of the impact of herbal teas and mystical remedies, I think this could be the big week. After that game last Saturday, I guess I have a renewed sense of hope. (Oh, you know which game I'm talking about. Just because I can't breathe oxygen yet, doesn't mean I don't bleed green. And I'm sorry Michigan fans, it's probably too hard to see past 3 years of defeat to understand the hope I'm talking about.) But I have a good feeling that this week will end as victoriously as it began. Go Green! Go White! Go Birth!
Cheers,
Harper Jayne
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