We are in the home stretch here, my friends- my due date is Sunday, and I keep hearing that 42 weeks marks the absolute deadline for this baby to show up, so there you have it. There WILL be a baby on board by the 4th of July, barring… well, shit. Barring I don’t know what, but probably some sort of natural disaster involving the end of the internet as we know it, or something equally inconceivable (I just spelled that right on the first try, and now I am doing a fist pump of spelling triumph).
So, this week, I have seen all sorts of baby-related professionals, trying to get a read on when this one might be making an appearance. First up was the sonographer, who we saw at the tony South Coast Hospital. Seriously, y’all- there is a reason Orange County has the reputation it does, and it has everything to do with HUGE BUCKETS of cash, Botox, and receptionists with snotty attitudes.
The ultrasound tech herself is super nice, and showed us the baby and printed pictures of whatever we wanted- for J that was the spine with the ribs flaring out from it. It’s like there’s a baby dinosaur fossil in there! In any case, the baby is measuring somewhere around seven and a half pounds, which is perfectly acceptable for a full term fetus. My midwife was super relieved to hear this, as she had been assuming that I was going to have some sort of gigantor alien baby on the order of 11 pounds. Why did she think this, you might ask? Well, at my last ultrasound visit the baby was measuring three weeks ahead, with an estimated due date of June 5th (ohhhh, HAHAHAHAHAHA), but now, a month later, the baby is measuring smaller and all that means is that ultrasonography is some wacky voodoo science, sprinkled liberally with some fairy dust bullshit. The baby did not actually SHRINK, from what I can tell- it’s more like a cautionary tale about the (lack of) power of extrapolation.
Then on Wednesday I went to the chiropractor. Again. But not the same one, a different, Webster method certified one. I went in thinking for sure, this would be a totally different experience, which just goes to show what sort of idiot I am. While she was much gentler, the premise was the same- crack this hip, pop that vertebrae, declare me “even” and send me on my way. Look, I’ve been lopsided for the better part of my ENTIRE LIFE, I don’t think it’s one ten minute adjustment that’s going to make the difference. Which is why, I suppose, she wants me to come back next week. OH, GOOD ONE, LADY. No. Not only NO, but HELL NO.
To really ice the cake of my decision to be done with chiropracty for the rest of forever, I received a letter from her this morning thanking me for my visit (very nice), and encouraging me to bring in the baby for adjustment after delivery. WAIT. READ THAT SHIT AGAIN. She wants me to bring in my floppy, wet noodles for bones, no head control newborn in so she can CRACK it? YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME. I don’t have any clue what sort of adjustment a newborn might need, and I will remain forever happily in the dark about this particular information. If my child decides as an adult that chiropracty is the bomb-est of bomb treatments, that is A-OK with me. But there is no way in hell a child of mine is getting cracked that way while I am the BOSS of them. Ooof.
Yesterday we went to the see the midwife, who released my from my brutal six-times-a-day finger pricking schedule in favor of a significantly more relaxed three times a day. I am a master at controlling my sugar, it turns out (or, more reasonably, my body always had it under control, and that fucking glucose drink is total bullshit no one should ever have to drink ever, except maybe as a torture device, and I am more or less categorically against torture, so there you have my feelings on Glucola).
With the baby “confirmed” to be a reasonable vagina-fitting size, we decided against any sort of labor-inducing interventions, especially since after checking me, the midwife told me my cervix is locked up tight. Indeed, as you’ve all told me, getting “checked” is no picnic, and it does appear that your cervix is located somewhere north of your tonsils. “Relax,” my midwife told me. “No, relax some more.” I’d have screamed some expletives at her, or maybe kicked her, but she had her whole hand up my biz, and I need her to help me deliver this baby eventually. I’ll scream expletives at her once the baby gets here, then.
Other than these sorts of baby-professionals, the rest of the week has been mostly about navigating the endless stream of randoms who want to know when I’m due, and what it is, and am I ready, and how do I feel, and am I tired. From people I know, this sort of thing is to be expected- I know everyone is excited to know the details, and I honestly wish I had some to share. The grocery clerks, receptionists, dudes on the street, and other assorted people I could generally not give a fuck about, on the other hand… well. Look, I get it. They’re making small talk, they’re well-meaning, and they mean no harm. BUT ME (and it is all about me, after all), I’ve been answering the same fucking questions for months and if there’s anything that’s tiring me about pregnancy, it’s answering the same three questions multiple times a day. I should make a shirt:
I’M DUE SUNDAY
I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS
YES, I HAVE NAMES
NO I WON’T TELL YOU
I FEEL FINE
This shirt is getting awfully wordy. Good thing I am the size of the Goodyear blimp.
Otherwise, the first of the grandparents arrive on Monday, I’m going to load up my Kindle with all sorts of reading recommendations floating around on Twitter, and then? I’m going to sit on my ass and wait.