We’ve just returned home after a couple of days holed up in soon-to-be great-granny’s apartment downtown, waiting out a blizzard.

With labour imminent and the city a 40-minute drive from home, we decided it was best to be close to the hospital in case baby started when the roads were bad. The sun is shining now and all is clear, and nothing new to report other than the usual prancing and dancing from below.

What an adrenalin rush that will be when it happens.

It’s such an interesting prospect to think about, since there are many hundreds of ways it could go. Will it start with a big splash on my shoes like in the movies? Not likely, I’m told. Maybe it will be just a vague kind of indigestion. Or maybe I’ll wake up in the middle of the night and be right in the thick of it.

The way I’m feeling right now, I’d swear this kid is trying to squiggle his way out by sheer force of personality.

With only one pair of pants and one very, very tired sweater left that (barely) fits, I’m starting to relish the idea of having my body back. I can’t even remember what it felt like to not have a passenger.

Top Pregnancy Necessities I Couldn’t Get Enough Of

• Body Shop Cocoa Butter Stick. Since about six weeks along, I’ve basted myself like a christmas goose morning, noon and night.
• Burt’s Bees Apricot Oil. Recently discovered. Was given a bottle for the baby. It’s half gone already. A little extra basting for the home stretch.
• Oatmeal. Only the really good stuff… Irish, Scottish, speerville mills. With peaches. With dates. With dried pears. With nothing. Baby likes a brick in his belly to start the day. Who am I to argue?
• Yoga. Total, complete heaven.

Top Things I’ll Get More of Next Time

• Yoga. Why do it two or three times a week when you can do it every day?
• Water. Never enough.
• Sleep. Never enough.
• Pictures. I started out determined to record the pregnancy, but didn’t take many pictures at all.
• End-of-pregnancy-friendly maternity clothes. Because as tempting as it is, you can’t go outside in nothing but slippers.

Christmas Day, 1:17 in the morning. Baby is jazzed up on granny robson's shortbread cookies, which means mommy doesn't sleep.

Every time the baby moves, which is still constantly, I can feel new kinds of pressure and strange, sometimes painful twinges or cramps. Until now, I've been more anxious about the prospect of living with the baby rather than the process of delivering it.

Giving birth to a baby has to be one of the biggest tests of mettle in the human experience. But with hardly a beesting to my name, I have no idea how I'll handle pain. I might completely fall apart. My brain tells me that's okay, that this is no time for pride.

But some other, baser instinct in me would rather be brave.

Maybe it's vanity, or some kind of hero complex, I don't know. But there's a part of me that hopes to discover some superhuman version of myself when the big moment arrives. I hope I’ll be inclined to just get down to business, rather than wasting energy by indulging the ‘fight or flight’ instinct. But then, maybe I won't be able to cope. This whole experience will probably be much more intense than I can imagine right now.

This whole notion of performance anxiety is somewhat of a surprise. I know once it's all said and done I won't care what happens. I suppose we'll be too busy with the baby to dwell on the mechanics of it anyway.

This picture was taken the morning after our wedding. I can't feel afraid when I think of this moment. Somehow, it doesn't seem possible for fear and this kind of blessedness to co-exist in my brain at the same time.

I'm going to try and keep this image top of mind when the baby starts, in the hopes there won't be room for anything else.

There's nothing worse than going to bed freaked out, and waking up crying.

Spent most of yesterday contemplating the possibility of pre-partum depression - is there such a thing? If not, I think I've just invented it.

The wonderful surprise baby shower on the weekend, and then finishing work on Wednesday both hit me in a way I didn't expect. Aside from the financial impact of now being on maternity leave, I'm now facing the transition from career and lovely, cosy relationship with Justin to impending motherhood and bleary-eyed zombiedom.

It's actually happening.

I already feel somewhat trapped, having only days left until we enter this new world of diapers and spit-up and cheerios crunching underfoot for the next several years.

What if our child just drives me nuts? What if he's just a hyper little brat, and more importantly, what is it that I'll do wrong that will create the monster? What if junior grows up to operate a tilt-a-whirl and breathe with his mouth open? Will I have enough patience and love in me to be as happily consumed as every other parent seems to be? Will we ever go kayaking again?

People usually respond with one of two things: 1) "that's just your hormones talking" or 2) "it's different when it's your own baby". I hope both are true.

In the meantime, I am filling my days to the brim with christmasing and chocolate cookie baking and vacuuming and engagements and festooning ... and on and on. I figure if I just keep moving, I won't have time to stop and ponder what's about to happen.

I've got our excellent recording of the Messiah on repeat, loudly enough for the baby to practically feel the timpani vibrating through the floor. It seems to calm the nonstop thinking.

Every time I imagine this baby, I imagine him as a tiny version of Justin. Long lashes, big brown eyes, dark skin and lots of hair.

I imagine he'll be able to describe the scientific properties of various types of clouds, grow a formidable beard in thirty seconds flat, spot wildlife from miles away and quietly inspire confidence and admiration in almost everyone he meets without ever being aware of it.

A miniature Justin. That would certainly make the transition to the baby cult easy, wouldn't it?

Baby is as heads-down as you can get, little more than an inch or two from the world.

Very weird to have the doctor announce that she was touching his head.

I'm 80% thinned out and 1-2 cms dilated, which is good news. This means baby and I are slowly getting ready for the big day, which could be sooner rather than later. I think he wants to get out and stretch his legs (and his lungs...).

Hopefully by the time I go into labour I'll already have some progress made without even having felt much. This could also mean that things will happen fast! Pray for clear skies and roads...

I am sad to admit it, but I think tonight was my last class of normal-person yoga.

Now that the baby has dropped, I just can't keep up anymore. Down dog still feels good, but I can't get out of it 'with grace, in ashtanga flow'. Every time I catch a glimpse of myself in the window reflection I start cracking up, just from the sheer size of my belly. Don't get me wrong - I still adore it. I'm just finding more humour in it these days than anything else.

Here's what I am looking forward to, post-Dec.31:

• Doing pigeon pose with no belly in the way
• Eating raw fish and soft french cheese
• Not having to hear strangers say the following: "When are you due? Ahhh. Lovely. You *do* realize that your life is about to end, don't you? Yuk yuk yuk!"
• Beer. It's not just a breakfast food.
• Not making that grunting sound every time I get into the truck (or get out of bed, or attempt to tie my shoes, or....)

I'm not wishing this pregnancy to be over, though. If there's one time in life that you're extraordinary, it's when you're pregnant. I'll miss that feeling of productivity that comes with knowing my body's doing what it was ultimately made to do. There's something very primal about it that's appealing.

Even without beer and sushi.

Was woken up last night to what I am sure were contractions.. or 'surges', as Ina May would say. I guess at this point they would be braxton-hicks, and I have to say, I appreciate them. It gave me a little more of a sense - even on a small scale - what to expect, and a chance to practice staying relaxed.

What a crazy trip this is!

Yesterday morning we were woken up to the sound of lobster boats 50 feet from the shore in front of the house. The season here started a couple of days ago, for those hard-shelled, big buggers from the cold and rough waters of St. Margaret's Bay. These are a far cry from our beloved Shediac lobsters whose season is the height of summer, and thanks to much warmer ocean waters, whose shells and meat are delicate and soft.

You take a Shediac lobster apart with your hands - and you take a Nova Scotia lobster apart with a cleaver or pliers and a good deal of force. Either way, the reward is so worth the work.

Justin had his heart set on lobster all day, so last night he went out to Shatford's Lobster Pound just down the road and picked up three beauties that were, as he was proudly informed, just three hours out of the water. After a brief but interesting meeting with Kitty, all three were put to sleep (rubbed between the eyes and stood on their heads) and then into the pot.

What a treat. Later that night though, I felt strange and a bit crampy. I couldn't tell if it was baby not being in the mood for lobster, or if it was contractions. I haven't felt any braxton-hicks yet as far as I know ('practice' contractions), so I really don't know what they're supposed to feel like. It happened three times, every ten minutes or so. Contractions or not, it was somewhat of a wake-up call.

We really do need to be ready now. I gathered up diapers, shampoo, onesies.. all the stuff they tell you to bring with you to the hospital. The bags are now packed and in the car, ready for the mad dash to the city.