I am still here.
By that, I mean Baby Girl is still content to remain nestled in an ever-shrinking environment in which her feet are crammed under my ribs and smooshed against my right ovary; her head pressing against muscles I've never felt before in nether regions of my body. She is her father's child - doesn't take direction, kicks you in bed, listens only long enough to make you *think* she's going to comply and responds eagerly to food.
Alas, I think she is so comfortable in there she might have to be forced to come out, which is not in the Birth Plan. I haven't given up hope, I'm still six days from my actual due date, but I am planning on attending my brother's university soccer game on Saturday - having given up hope she's going to be convenient and arrive before Labor Day weekend, just because it works out better for everyone.
Over the past week, I made the mistake of deciding that we would never be ready for Baby Girl's arrival, and so she might as well come right now. Before, I was so paranoid she'd make her grand entrance before I was ready, that I think I willed her into a state of permanent residency in utero. Once I made the decision that I could be ready, Baby Girl decided she was not ready and all contractions promptly ceased.
Now, I fidget. The nesting energy remains, but my concentration is shot. I stopped planning after last Saturday, clearing my schedule for Baby Girl from now through eternity, which means I face day upon day of empty calendar blocks staring back at me. I fidget at work - barely able to concentrate on the mundane things, let alone the two proposals sitting on my desk staring back at me. I fidget at home - wandering from room to room, driving Himself up the wall (and driving myself slowly mad). I can't concentrate to read, watch tv, scrapbook, do laundry - anything. Except cook. Himself thinks I'm trying to kill him with all the cooking - homemade apple/peach pie, french onion soup, roast with veggies and sour cream gravy, pad thai, Indian baked rice and chicken, homemade tomato garlic soup to freeze (Himself isn't a fan) - the leftovers are piling up and Himself last night finally said, "No more cooking!"
Now I really am fidgeting. I'm actually looking forward to having to water the lawn tonight - an hour where I can focus on getting the sprinklers just right to reach the dry spots.
Meanwhile, well-meaning folks have chimed in, right on cue, with what friends promised would be "ridiculous statements." The following are some of my favorites, of course, with editorial commentary following:
* "Relax and enjoy these last few weeks." (This from a pregnancy "congratulations you're 39 weeks" newsletter yesterday)
Relax?! I'm not even sleeping. I'm plagued with insomnia from all the fidgeting, not to mention that I have body parts stuffed into every available crevice. Enjoy?! Same thing. I am peeing so often I am thinking of moving the TV into the bathroom so I can at least be entertained in there. And weeks? As in plural? Oh no. They said 40 weeks. I'm almost there. That means I'm down to single-digit days. Not weeks. They have to be wrong. Please be wrong.
* "Enjoy your sleep now, you won't get any when the baby comes."
You think I'm sleeping now? Okay, I KNOW I won't be sleeping when the baby comes, but I haven't slept for the past 9 months. I'm lucky if I don't see every hour on the clock each night. Every time I move to get comfortable, Baby Girl takes the opportunity to expand into whatever new available space has appeared. Then the fidgeting. You'd think I had pregnancy-onset ADD (hmm ... maybe I'm on to something?).
* "You should take some time off before the baby comes."
Um, okay. No work = no pay. Besides that, while I AM ridiculously uncomfortable at work (some days more than others), I am a one-woman disaster at home. It's bad enough that weekends have two days - I burn out on the first day and have to recover the second. If I stayed at home this week, I'd be able to feed a small, third-world country with the food I generated. The towels would be washed again (third time in two weeks) because I would be scrubbing things again. We'd be bankrupt or own a large stock in Harmon's due to the increased grocery volume - I'm not sure which. Baby Girl's closet would be re-arranged for the third time in as many weeks. I'd walk the entire valley, giving my suddenly over-protective mother a coronary. Himself would check himself into the looney bin to escape. No, it's better I keep working.
* "Be patient. You want the baby to be done."
Done? As in fully-cooked? I'm not baking a roast here. And yes, I do want her fully developed. I didn't start being impatient until well after I hit "full-term." I can handle six more days. I can't handle weeks. In plural. I have been patient for 39 weeks - that is a record for me. Patience is a virtue, but not one I posess.
* "You'll miss being pregnant."
I will miss feeling Baby Girl move. I will miss feeling like she's all mine - that we have some sort of "all girls" secret club. But I am relatively confident that I will NOT miss being pregnant. I won't miss having a meltdown because stretchmarks and zits (the first of pregnancy) hit on the same day (39 weeks exactly - I wasn't nuts when I started willing her here LAST week) or because I've already worn the three pairs of pants that fit TWICE in the last week. I won't miss not being able to breathe. I won't miss feeling like everything is "off limits" because I am pregnant. I won't miss the not feeling good for a single 24-hour period since before Christmas.
* "You haven't had the baby YET?!"
Actually, I have. I just loved being pregnant so much I invested in a fat suit and waddle by the end of the day because I'm practicing my runway modeling spoof. Really. I know I live in a new place, but I PROMISE I don't look like this in my other life.
Yes, patience be darned, I'm never going to be any more ready than I am now or any less nervous about screwing Baby Girl up. Bring on the contractions, let's get this show on the road.
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