The other night, I was mentioning my birthday, as I frequently do toward the end of March.

"It's your double sweet sixteen," said Adam.

"Acually, I'm 32 already. I'm going to be 33," I said.

His eyes flew wide open. "Oh, God!" he said.

Needless to say, that is not quite the reaction I was hoping for.

Meanwhile, all of my pregnancy books have assured me that any day now I will start feeling less in-utero movement as the Bun gets bigger and the Bun's quarters get more cramped. Yes, any day now I will stop being woken up at 5 a.m. by a sharp kick to the bladder, or lie awake at 11 with my hands on my belly, marveling at the Alien-esque back-and-forth that's going on. This is all going to calm down. Any day now.

Any day at all.