It must have been my birthday. That's the only plausible explanation for the exciting gift I received at the OB's office yesterday - a cervical exam! For the uninitiated, a cervical exam at nearly 38 weeks is something akin to vaginal torture. Oh the pressure! The pain! But, alas, the reward: I am <gasp> 2 cm dilated and 50% effaced. Dare I say the OB was rather impressed. After weeks of my not so subtle requests that she promptly and accurately predict my exact due date right now pleaseandthankyou, she stated, pretty optimistically, "you won't go past your due date." *angels singing, horns blowing, etc.*
She then proceeded to suggest some natural ways of accelerating the birth process which she says I am free to undertake next week. The exhilarating options range from nipple stimulation to get the pitocin and uterine contractions flowing (specifically, for five minutes, three times a day – because, you know, what full time attorney doesn't have the time for such whimsical endeavors?) and the illusive "stripping of the membranes" which she is, ahem, happy to perform during my next office visit. Because the former made me feel like a 6th grader in sex ed and the latter sounded downright terrifying, I decided to just blush discretely to myself and change the subject. It's kind of a blur, but I think we then started talking about meditation and chocolate truffles. Also Zantac. Because, you know, at nearly 38 weeks, this is what it's come to, people.
After she left, and I rose from my naked-from-the-waist-down stupor, I looked down to find what was essentially a harrowing crime scene. Apparently, and much to my surprise (because I am nothing if not a logical thinker), her exam had left me, how do I say this, bloody. So, with zero of my dignity still in tact, I scampered to the door, still-naked-from-the-waist-down, to try to call her back in. Because, you know,
I’m pregnant SOMETHING MUST BE TERRIBLY
WRONG. A miscellaneous nurse spotted me first, and clearly INCREDIBLY
DISTURBED by my lack of dignity, shoved me back in the room, closed the
door and abruptly informed me she would find the doctor. Sauntering back in, my
OB, visibly amused, apologized, noting "I should have warned you!"
before directing me to the PLUS SIZE ADULT DIAPERS “maxi pads” in the corner. Ahem. Noted.
So dear readers, do tell. At 2 cm dilated and 50% effaced should I be lying very still and eating bon bons? Feverishly packing my hospital bag? Going all in, membranes and all? And if the last, what on earth should I expect with that little activity?
 Spoiler: it was not my birthday.
 It is nothing like torture. Another symptom of the third trimester: drama!
 Or, in her case, nothankyou. Since, apparently, obstetricians don’t like to make baseless predictions and later be held to them by anxious patients.
 Stripping Membranes. Clearly an 80s metal band with a hair problem. Or something you do while on a skateboard. Or else, you know, cervical agony of an indeterminate variety.
 I feel like I just got solicited. The most pregnant hooker in the Northeast.
 <Mature adult here>.
 (Seriously though. I'm pretty sure we talked about these things, in this order. I kind of adore my OB despite what follows).