The first thing that the office administrator said to me this morning (after 'Hello, Violet'), was that I'd 'dropped'. The boy also said the same thing last night. Well, perhaps I have, but I honestly can't say I've noticed my belly being any lower than it was a week ago.
I must be becoming less and less observant with time, because I haven't been noticing the baby kicking much either. When I told the midwife, she looked very concerned and muttered something about getting me in for a scan. But in the few minutes it took for her to put goop on my belly and observe the baby's heartrate, she noticed about half a dozen kicks which I didn't. Oops. Oh contraire, I have a very active baby in my innards.
The fact that I've 'dropped' means I'm another step closer to the big day. I'm still waiting (though not impatiently) for my boobs to start leaking, my skin to start showing stretchmarks and for my ankles to start swelling with retained fluid. And that's before the breaking of the waters, the 'show', and the actual labour.
My work replacement started today, and in the middle of the first day of my three-day long handover, my manager decided to take our photos for the staff newsletter. That's when I realised how fat I look in black and white. Oh well, I have an excuse.