I think I’ll remember this week as the week things changed. The week when it dawned on me, all of a sudden, and rather late in the proverbial game, all things considered, that I was going to, like, you know, birth this baby. As in, next month.
Part of it was the symptoms, the godforsaken everloving, unrelenting SYMPTOMS. Not that they haven’t been here before. But there’s been something about this week – a ratcheting up, an intensity, a this-shit-just-got-real ness, never before felt.
- Heartburn: 24/7
- Baby somersaults: all the freakin time
- Baby hiccups: on the regular
- That which shall not be named: happening and also, gross
- Sleep: a fleeting memory, a relic of the past
- Toni Braxtons: in a way that left C panicked last night at the dinner table and furiously scribbling a list of items to pack in my totally-premature-oh-my-goodness-we-have-six-entire-weeks-left hospital bag
- Ability to get out of bed without engaging in a convoluted series of roll-tuck-elbow-hoist maneuvers generally reserved for the very fat and the very old: limited
- Socks: shockingly difficult to put on
Of course, it’s not just physical. My appointments with the OB are now every two weeks, instead of every four. At our most recent appointment, in addition to printing us a (pretty obscure and needless to say, neither wanted nor requested) photograph of our son’s scrotum, the nurse checked the head position – downward and, excuse me while I slip into what I believe is medical jargon: ready to roll! We also discussed circumcision (yup), who will be with me in the room (C) and our feelings about the all consuming, often articulated, rarely followed, BIRTH PLAN (more on that soon).
What can I say you guys, this is happening. It’s happening in the way that I feel like my body is distinctly no longer my own – yes, my stomach has been rounder and rounder, my thigh gap less and less existent and my waddle more and more pronounced – but until this week, I still felt, more or less, between moments of throwing-up-while-putting-on-my-shoes, like me. And now? Now I feel like a vessel. A uterus for the greater good. A carrier pigeon with an important delivery (I’ve gone too far).
It’s not something I can entirely articulate. See supra, obviously. But it’s there. It’s different. It’s I-could-actually-have-this-baby-right-now-and-things-might-actually-be-okay (plus/minus NICU).
Which of course, brings us back to where I started this rambling bullet pointed post: Birth. Labor. Basically, UTTER TERROR. A discussion of which will have to wait until next time. Now excuse me while I figure out how to get up off this couch in the absence of some kind of hydraulic lift.
|34 weeks and making a cameo as what I will fondly refer to as, "Pregnancy Fitness Barbie." |
Minus the cleavage.
(Note to future self: spandex is never as flattering as you might lead yourself to believe).
 Imagine if you put a live and rather energetic chicken in a paper bag, closed the paper bag, and then encouraged the chicken to try to get out. I am pretty sure my son is that chicken. We’re hoping ultrasound can soon confirm. (ProTip: Google searching for YouTube videos of “chicken in a paper bag” is much more likely to turn up hits like “5 Minutes Cooking with Auntie Nora” and “A Recipe for Chicken Waikiki” than the video you might have imagined in your head). Also, this. What on earth?
 But in all seriousness, I cannot say this thing out loud. Because, mature adult, etc.
 <Presently contemplating if, when and how to torment him with this, while counterbalancing such considerations against the exorbitant cost of hourly therapy>. Thoughts from the group?