By now it's an embryo. It's the size of a lentil.
Among the other horrifying realities that are coming to light, the internet just informed me that projected due date is August 16th. That is the day before my best friend Lindsay's wedding.
I'm her maid of honor. (Fine, matron, but what a gross word.)
When I told her the news, after her obligatory and inspiring "you can do this, you're not sixteen, everything will be fine" speech, she paused.
"I feel like this is a terrible question to ask," she began, somewhat haltingly, "but what would have to happen for you to not be able to be there at all?"
Now let's be reasonable. She has been planning this wedding for a year. The lentil has only just developed a neural tube. So I assume that barring, say, delivering it the night before, I can be in the wedding.
So don't worry about it, Lindsay. I will be there, even if I have to give birth in bathroom at your reception, like a tragic teenager at the prom.
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