pants - c/o émoi émoi
blazer - c/o Isabella Oliver
watch - Amazon
shades - ASOS
shoes - Amazon
bag - c/o Lily Jade
37 weeks + 5 days. Because those 5 days ... they count right now. Call me Baby, I care not.
Term, baby, term. Not to be confused with full term (39 weeks) just like I'm not 9 months pregnant quite yet. Vices - we've all got them. And apparently term is when I start thinking certain outfits look presentable enough to wear out in public, photograph, and post when in reality said outfit might be suitable for a business casual board meeting with a bizarre shoe choice requirement. Those aren't platform Birkenstocks and I promise they look better with a dress. C'est la craziest life. Or something.
I feathered my nest to perfection the other day by 1. washing a few newborn onesies and 2. ordering some diapers and after seeing both up close and personal I firmly believe the baby will be too big to wear them once he or she arrives. I just feel it in my ribs. And everywhere else. We'll see! One of these days.
Theo was born at 37 weeks exactly, Sebastian at 39 weeks + 5 days, Julia at 38 weeks + 2 days, and Phoebe at 38 weeks + 3 days ... and aren't you glad your brain is now littered with that pertinent Patton information? I thought you might. But I always swear I won't go into miserable/antsy/end of pregnancy mode and then, hello. Here I am, checking in once again. Predictable as ever. Okay, not miserable ... just mildly irritable. There's a difference, I'm sure.
A group of the nicest girls ever (ever!) got together and got me a pedicure AND prenatal massage AND a sitter. Truly, nicest ever. I went for the pedicure yesterday and it was one of the more memorable hours of my life ... so unbelievably good. And the massage is this weekend ... and it feels a little bit like Christmas Eve as I wait in overly eager beaver mode for my appointment.
Okay, I'll go before I start giving you the rundown of my grocery list, the number of shifts Simon has left as a resident, and my plans to give the boys haircuts tomorrow. You can only handle so much chronicles-o-Grace and I imagine you hit that limit three paragraphs ago.
Off we both trot.
capital X and O for the road.