I'm beginning to really worry about having one of these colds when I go into labor. Concentrating will be difficult enough while at full capacity; not being able to breathe on top of that will be nothing short of torture. This weekend's birth class covered relaxation, and when the whole class was asked to lie on the floor in our most comfortable position, I had to prop myself up against a couch. I couldn't really enjoy the whole guided relaxation exercise, either - not when I had to keep grabbing for tissues for my runny nose.

And the thought of more chicken soup is really starting to repulse me.

Somebody on my homebirth listserv suggested alfalfa tablets for improving the immune system. I'll have to make sure to ask the midwives about that. I'm popping Vitamin C tablets, sucking on zinc lozenges, and downing bottle upon bottle of water. I don't want to just beat this cold; I want to beat them all until they just leave me alone!

Eric is mad at me, I deserve it, and I still start crying when he yells at me. In the back of my head, a voice starts berating: "Are you insane? He has a perfect right to be upset; just get up and get back to work!" On the outside, though, my lower lip is quivering and tears are forming in my eyes. I've been trying to forewarn Eric when I feel particularly fragile, so that he knows that even I know my sobs are unwarranted, but that feels pretty unfair to him. Why should he have to worry about wandering through the minefield of my emotions? Why shouldn't he expect that I be an equal partner in the running of our household? He has the right to expect that! Even if I can't lift heavy pieces of furniture, I am perfectly capable of filling boxes with clothing.

But I'm so tired.

I have trouble making it through a regular workday at the library. Two-year-old storytime leaves me feeling utterly exhausted and in serious need of a nap. The very notion of leaving work to go home and pack makes me want to collapse in a big, worthless heap. I have no honest idea how we're going to be ready for this move, except that we have no choice but to be.

I'm a big whiner, and I wouldn't blame Eric if he decided that he didn't even want to see me again until after the baby leaves my body and returns my emotional control.

Does he know the section? Not really. Was he nervous? Oh, you bet. Is the class full of attractive women, and did that make it ten times worse for him? Absolutely. He stood up to greet them with some of the highest quality hemming and hawing that I've ever witnessed.

Poor guy. He's really grown on me this past year, and I hate to see him suffer like that. Still, it did give me a chuckle, and right when I needed it most.

Incidentally, Mr. Skittish is very nervous around me these days, thanks to the presence of the Bit. He seems most terrified that I'll decide to actually give birth right here in the library. Of course, I've been teasing him unmercifully. "Ooh! Oh, that was a really strong Braxton-Hicks contraction!"

Actually, Eric's in that camp, too. I don't know when he changed his mind and stopped insisting this was a little girl, but he is now firmly of the opinion that I am carrying not one babe, but two. Nothing I can say can persuade him that the possibility is remote; he's insisting that we are now expecting identical daughters - fraternal twins being hereditary, and we being from twinless families.

Me? I'm still in the dark. I have not an inkling of who resides in my uterus, and I'm still hoping to maintain the secrecy of his or her sex, even with the upcoming ultrasound. Some of my friends are skeptical that we'll be able to make it through the procedure without getting a peek, but we're praying that our child will be a modest one, at least for the time being.