I hope you guys weren’t logging onto to catch a glimpse of a brand-new baby, swaddled in a pink and blue striped blanket with some exclamation point laden text announcing the arrival of Fluffy McAlistair VonTrapp, weighing in at 8 lbs 2 oz and 21 inches, because I do not have that sort of shit here.  Oh, no sirree Bob, all I have to share is a distended abdomen and a bad mood bordering on the severely angry, because Junior Mystery has yet to make an appearance.

I thought that 41 weeks pregnant would actually be more physically uncomfortable than it is, but it turns out there is a sort of terminal size your belly will reach, after which point there is no more outward projection your body cares to offer up.  I don’t think I am significantly BIGGER than I was, say, three weeks ago.  On the emotional/mental side of 41 weeks, on the other hand, there is all sorts of angst.

My parents arrived on Monday, a day AFTER my due date (which I just typed as my DIE date, and seriously, if this baby cooks much longer, might not be too far from the truth), and we’ve been on baby watch ever since.  I’ve walked the length and breadth of the Long Beach shore, I’ve gone up and down stairs.  I’ve had my feet massaged, my nipples stimulated, and this afternoon, I am going to PAY SOMEONE to stick tiny needles into my skin, all in an effort to move this baby south.  Name an herbal supplement, go on, I dare you- I’ve tried it.  I’ve had my membranes stripped, I’ve stocked the fridge with food, I’ve taken naps.  I refuse to try eating spicy foods, though, as I have been experiencing heartburn even more severe than what I felt in my first trimester, and there is a line between attempting to induce labor and torturing the shit out of yourself, and apparently spicy food is where it is at.

Blah.  Three paragraphs to tell you that 41 weeks is no picnic, and now both of the websites I follow with “your pregnancy week by week” type stuff have sent me emails congratulating me on my “one week old” and what I can expect from him or her.  JUST TO BE CLEAR, THERE IS NO ONE WEEK OLD HERE.  BabyCenter followed that up with a dire description of what happens to women who gestate over 42 weeks, complete with the words OVERWEIGHT and STILLBORN, thanks for fucking nothing, major baby website.

I’m at a loss for what to even DO with myself- there is no more shopping, no more laundry (CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE IT), no more…. I don’t know what else is left to be done.  I can’t even wallow in a pint of ice cream, as I am still monitoring my blood sugar, and once someone gives me a task that involves recording numbers, you better believe that I will take that as some sort of death cage CHALLENGE, and essentially kill myself to make sure all my numbers are always right always.  Perfectionist, I think they call it.

There are a fair number of women I follow on Twitter with newborns, and even their poop-blowout diapers and breastfeeding war stories aren’t making me rethink the ejection of my fetal tenant.  These stories actually make me JEALOUS, because I too, would prefer to be complaining about four AM wake-ups, if the trade-off is being able to bend over and reach my own motherfucking toes.  Basically, late pregnancy makes you absolutely bat-shit NUTS, because nine months ago, I would NEVER have considered a poop-filled diaper to be a viable alternative to… just about anything.  Any yet, here we are.

Y’all, keep your fingers crossed.  I’m hoping the next post does INDEED, contain a swaddled baby picture.

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