It's hitting me now. Ten more weeks until D-Day. Or maybe I should say E-Day, since we've all but decided to name the baby Evan.
Only ten more weeks.
Which means, only ten more free weekends.
Ten more weekends to lay around and be our lazy procrastinating selves. When he arrives, I'm afraid we'll have to act like the responsible adults in our thirties that it's been easy to pretend we really aren't. We like to think of ourselves as carefree, not tied down, spur-of-the-moment, et cetera... although all evidence speaks to the contrary. Case(s) in point: we spent New Year's Eve watching the first season of 24 on DVD, and Valentine's Day watching the episodes of Americal Idol that we Tivo'd while on vacation last week. Actually, given these facts, it's conceivable to think that the baby will fit into our actual lifestyle much better than the lifestyle I sometimes like to think we lead.
Ten more weeks for me to double up on pancakes and cheeseburgers, all in the name of eating for two.
Ten more weeks to load up on all the sleep, dinners out, movies and other things that people are constantly telling us that we will never get to do again.
Ten more weeks to accumulate all the gear you supposedly "need" for a baby. (On that note, the Great Wipe Warmer Debate of 2005 rages on.)
Ten more weeks to wonder what he looks like.
Ten more weeks where we have only ourselves to feed, clothe, worry about and pick up after.
Am I ready for this?