In the last email I received about the progressing plum (five and a half inches from rump to crown!), I discovered that said-plum (even in the depths of my cantaloupe-sized uterus) can now hear. Knowing that said-plum can now hear makes me want to sing.
I'm not talking about your mama's threading-a-needle hum; I mean, I really want to sing, "belt it out," if you will, beam the ole pipes heavenward. Anyone who has ever heard me sing understands that this in itself is terrifying, but it's been compounded this week because:
1) I will only sing in the shower (or the car or on a dark deserted street), BUT we're having our bathrooms re-tiled (cue the melodic sledgehammer in the background), so I have to shower at the gym (cue "pregnant pooched" woman through frosted glass of steaming gym shower howling her lungs out).
2) And you might think that since I do my gym showering at off-hours, I cause little harm to the general public, BUT, it gets even worse (and my concern here is not for the general public but rather for the sanity of both my unborn child and myself) because (not including Happy Birthday), I only know four songs. Yep. That's right. Count them: two old church songs, one ditty about two old maids sitting under a tree and finally a lovely ballad my mother sang me when I was little about a girl who gets run over by a Mack truck but bounces right back!
So...you folks out there with children (or nieces or neighbors or very finicky boyfriends), give up the wealth. I need songs to sing. Give me your lullabies, your arias, your anthems and chants--the last thing I want is this baby coming out cooing to a Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall! (Oops. I guess that's five.)