Friday, 30 January, 7:00 PM
For the 14 days prior to this evening I had tried every possible labor inducing technique documented in pregnant folklore to get this baby here including but not limited to:

1. Furious stair running (which in my nine months pregnant condition was more of a furious stair waddling involving alternating grunts and gasps for air).

2. Hour long run-walks with Chuck the dog.

3. Praying (more like pleading or outright begging for mercy, at this point my bladder had stopped working entirely and I was peeing every 30 seconds).

4. Seducing my husband, Jon, more frequently than should be legal for a swollen human incubator who has worn nothing but elastic-waist pajama bottoms in public for the last four months.

{ making leta }

We hear about a local Italian restaurant that serves Pregnant Pizza, a specialty dish that has sent at least five pregnant women into labor according to a local newspaper. Of course, local newspapers in Utah do things like feature spreads on polygamy that read like glowing advertisements for the fanatical offshoots of the Mormon Church, but I'm desperate and I'm willing to try anything short of agreeing to let my daughter be married off at the age of 14 to a 60 year old dirty cock knocker who thinks he's been ordained by God.

I order the Pregnant Pizza which really isn't a pizza but a 144 square inch orgasm of garlic. For appetizers we order bagna cauda, a dish that contains over 100 cloves of roasted garlic. I eat half of it, Jon eats the other half. By the time we leave the restaurant I have basically ensured that my baby will be pooping garlic for the first 13 years of her life.