Three months ago I would’ve told you with the naive confidence of someone who knows absolutely nothing that I was expecting to deliver this kid a few weeks ahead of my prospective due date, which happens to be today, and that by now I’d be adjusting to motherhood while contentedly sipping a summer mojito next to a quietly sleeping infant and a value pack of alcohol test strips for breast milk. Sure, I might be a little bloodied and sore, but I’d be in recovery — not the limbo-esque period of uncomfortable, weighty impatience (mine and apparently everyone else’s) that comes with actually approaching a full-term pregnancy.

And for some reason I never thought I’d have to bear witness to what happens after the due date, which I can only imagine is the increased feeling of someone stepping down on my cervix with a steel-toed boot while a parade of pity-looks from empathetic women passes by my window.

But it appears as though this kid has inherited my lack of concern for punctuality over her father’s military precision, despite the fact that I played Diana Ross’s “I’m Coming Out” at least three times for her yesterday until she almost kicked the iPhone off my belly.

But really, I’m not complaining.

How could I complain about something I consciously brought upon myself? That’d be like complaining about the unexpected pitfalls of a job I really wanted or rain during a vacation I worked especially diligently to plan. In situations like these, it’s best to just sip that mojito — or, in my case, an overpriced bottle of fruit-infused Hint water I totally deserve because, by God, did I mention I’m 40 weeks pregnant? — and accept the fact that my kid would apparently prefer to continue swallowing her own feces within the dark, claustrophobic confines of my womb than join us in the glorious world of air and sunshine and fully functioning lung capacity. (Both hers and mine.)

It’s called progressive parenting, and I’m totally on board.

At least while I don’t have a choice.

In the meantime I’ll strive to enjoy the remaining couple of days — or weeks? — of people telling me how adorably pregnant I am (apparently I look like I’ve swallowed a basketball, which is gestational speak for “pretty damn couture,” considering I have a fully formed human residing in my abdomen and playing Hacky Sack with my kidneys), the deliciously creepy feeling of a human hand tickling my obliques from the inside, and anything else I won’t exactly miss about being pregnant but might look back on one day with the kind of nostalgic fondness one reserves for that eccentric family aunt whose inappropriate conjectures everyone else finds distasteful but you secretly find amusing and study diligently in order to take on the role yourself forty years down the line.

I also have some other potentially big news to share, but its fruition is hinged upon the safe arrival of this baby, which of course adds to the pressure and impatience and unrealistic expectations I’m already thrusting upon her undoubtedly strong-yet-adorable little shoulders.

No wonder she’s in no rush to arrive.