I really like this woman's take on being 36 weeks along:

any moment now, my belly button will simply pop out with a ping and the Wee Bald Stranger will be cooked—like a blueberry Poptart.... the principal hardship of pregnancy lies in months of pretending that you are a rational, competent professional, even when you are, in truth, a sweaty preverbal beast. I have become expert at filing stories, doing radio interviews, and editing copy, while fluffy white bunnies frolic through my prefrontal cortex, scattering chocolate and cheese popcorn and the occasional Heineken in their wake. It's been like this for months. Which is why I am deeply relieved—in the most sexist way imaginable—that Don Rumsfeld is not expecting twins next month.

Go read the whole week long series. I often laughed aloud.