I knew it was just a question of time. I can't bring myself to Google how pregnant I should be, 16 weeks? 18? Three years? My SIL Hermione changed her Facebook profile picture to some photo of pickles and ice cream and confirmed it. November. She's pregnant. With my due date.
And so everyone and their dog is posting, reposting. Great-Grandma is flying in. Auntie is flying in. Someone is knitting. Someone is sending a bunch of clothes. Already, they know she's going to be the best mom. MIL posting about so excited to be a grandma. She's having the first grandbaby, and I've got nothing. How stupid was I for ever thinking anything would be normal. Nothing will ever be normal again.
And the cheese stands alone.