Final thoughts from Swan as she enters motherhood

As I sit and type these words to you readers out there, anxiety and a healthy dose of fear is building up inside me.

For most of you, Sunday marks the second race of the Chase, but for me it's D-day, not to be mistaken for doomsday. But if you ask me, it's something similar. Sunday is the due date of my first child, which in my mind is just as scary.

The only other person more afraid of the looming day might be Denny Hamlin. First, let me be clear, he is not pregnant. He is, however, more or less terrible at Dover International Speedway, the concrete track where he and the other Cup drivers will compete Sunday.

Casey Mears has struggled in his first year with RCR, but he's never been called a "failure to progress."

With four consecutive finishes outside the top 35 heading to the Monster Mile, Hamlin has an average finish of 25. He'll have to find something in the nearby casino hotel to change his luck. Me on the other hand, I'm cooked.

Why? Because I have been labeled a "failure to progress."

How is that even possible? Like the Cup drivers who've had nearly nine months to prepare, so have I. But it turns out I've stalled and may need some of those labor-inducing drugs so many mothers dread and say to avoid.

You know, I've been called a lot of things in my life, but a "failure to progress" was not one of them ... well at least that I know of, maybe once in first grade for disturbing others in class.

Whatever, that was then, and now I'm a 32-year-old three days away from possibly giving birth, and "failure to progress" is not a label I wish to carry -- especially when I'm 10 pounds over the legal limit. Every week when I go to the doctor I get on the scale backwards so I don't have to see my actual weight. In my mind, I'm still 130 but sadly ankles say otherwise.

But back to my new label, "failure to progress." I couldn't help but wonder about a few others in my situation, others who have failed to progress. Misery loves company right?

My mind began to wonder. Has Richard Childress called Casey Mears into his office and said hey "you're a failure to progress." Or did Roger Penske say that to David Stremme right before he decided to replace him with Brad Keselowski? OK, starting to feel better now.

I need to channel my inner Jimmie Johnson, the driver known for fabulous comebacks after obscure mechanical glitches. I need to take some cues from Tony Stewart, the driver who can start in the back of the pack and still win the race.

So I'm a bit behind here, but I can make up some ground, get some laps back.

Johnson did in 2006. After the first race in Loudon, he was 139 points down due to a 39th-place finish caused by a dropped cylinder. He dropped seven spots in the Chase standings but rallied and went on to win his first championship.

Maybe I should pack a picture of Johnson in my hospital bag. He can be my focal point in the delivery room. Eyes on Johnson, ears to Beyonce; I can handle this labor thing no problem.

Still, I feel like I'm staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. I'm going to go into labor already behind the eight ball. I have chronic heartburn, something like a truck driver not even Dr. Oz could help, coupled with a last-minute head cold. And my carpal tunnel has forced me to wear arm braces reminiscent of Michael Jackson a la the HIStory tour circa 1997. Though mine are nude and not cute.

Thanks to carpal tunnel, Raygan is ready to do the moonwalk into the delivery room.

That said, there are a litany of activities I'd rather take on than labor and delivery.

I'd rather autograph 500 die-cast cars in 90-degree heat with my pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel than birth this child. I'd rather walk up and down pit road with my puffy Fred Flintstone like feet shoved into Ingrid Gordon's stilettos than endure contractions and annoying breathing rituals.

I'd rather drive 400 miles at Indianapolis with Gordon's broke back, Carl Edwards bum foot and Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s bad luck right now than be subjected to the pain of pushing a seven-pound parasite from my body.

Yes, I called my soon-to-be son a parasite because symbiotic is definitely not the word I would use to describe these past nine months.

But soon it will be over.

No more pee police at the doctor's office hitting me up for samples. I think I'm now tied with Jeremy Mayfield for highest number of cups filled in a given month. No more pregnancy brain or sleepless nights and covering NASCAR from the sidelines, which includes my couch at home.

Soon, after my eight weeks of maternity leave, and/or home detention, I will be back on the job. So my seven-pound plus one and me will return in the offseason.

Now about that free day care in Daytona. Where do I sign up for that?

The opinions expressed are solely those of the writer.