Today you dropped. Well, to be exact, sometime last night you dropped. I felt the change but didn't know what to call it. I fell asleep feeling something different. I woke up feeling something different. I went to work feeling different. And at some point today, it hit me: you'd dropped.

I haven't read books, really. I wait until I have a question, and then I find an answer by triangulating all the information available on the internet. And the internet told me: 2 to 4 weeks. Usually, after dropping occurs, there are only another two to four weeks left before labor begins.

Later this evening your father wanted to look at a stroller. So we did. And I completely lost it. I thought I had weeks more before you'd be one step closer to a birthday. I thought I'd feel your feet in my ribs. I thought you'd kick and turn and do some more shape-shifting of my belly. I'm not ready to give up this time we have together, just the two of us. I'm not ready to share you with everyone else.

These are not the last few weeks, just the two of us, me and your father. You've been with us since June, and we've known it. You're here now, and we know it. I've slowly gotten to know you over the last eight months, and you me. We sleep together. The cat and I read to you. Your father presses at your elbow or knee to elicit another kick. We are already a family of three.

I know it's selfish to want you to stay. Having you here has made me the happiest I've ever been, and I'm afraid that when you leave my body, so will that feeling. I want to hold it, and you, for as long as I can.

Luckily, I'm not the first woman to be pregnant, and at some point you will grow so big and be so heavy that I will have no other choice. The waves will start and there will be nothing I can do, but go with it.

I want you to know: I've enjoyed having you here, and yes, despite everything I just said, when you're ready to begin the fourth trimester, so am I.