He knows me way too well

“Do you think the cats’ll be OK while we’re at the hospital?”

“Yeah, they should be fine.”

“It’s not like you can’t leave to go feed them. We’re only 15 minutes away.”

“Yeah. My mom may be able to feed them too, on her way into town for work.”

“That would be good. Because I don’t know how clingy I’ll be. I might not want you to leave.”

“You’ll be like, ‘Get the fuck out of my face!’”

“I mean afterward.”

“You’ll still be like that afterward. You’ll be like, ‘You’re holding the baby all wrong!’”

“But I want you to hold the baby.”

“You’ll be like, ‘You can’t change a diaper for shit! Give me those wipes—you can’t tell his ass from a hole in the ground!’”

“Omigosh, I’m totally going to be like that.”

“You know it.”

The longest week

I think this has been the longest week of my pregnancy so far, and it’s not even half over. And I know I shouldn’t be complaining because I’m not even to my due date yet (never mind overdue, like so many of my blog friends were when they delivered this week) but I just can’t help it. I am no longer pleasant to be around. I snap at Chris every chance I get. The house is either too hot or too cold and I’m constantly opening and closing windows or adjusting the air conditioning. I sleep for too short a time and wake up grumpy, or I sleep for too long a time and wake up contracting with a full bladder. I can no longer sleep on my right side because of some weird pain in my ribcage (I secretly fear the baby has kicked his way through my diaphragm and into my liver and what if he’s stuck there and won’t come out when it’s time?) so the only position I can sleep in is on my left side. And I’m already planning to complain to my midwife about this and when she tells me to try sitting up in a recliner or propping myself up with pillows I’m going to say BUT I HAVE INSOMNIA, REMEMBER? If I’m not comfortable, I’m just not going to sleep. Period.

Wow, there’s a negative attitude if I ever saw one. Do you think that’ll be enough to convince her to induce me? Or should I try crying again?

I’m regretting not making an OB appointment this week because then at least I’d have something baby-related to do. As it is, yesterday I got a bikini wax. And it hurt like HELL. I am bruised down there and it’s not pretty. And the whole time my esthetician was working I was like, Hmm, maybe this pain will prepare me for labor. That is, until I said that out loud to her, and she laughed and said when I’m in labor, “You’ll be wishing you were just getting a bikini wax.” This from a person who waxed the SAME AREA THREE TIMES? I don’t know if I believe you hon, because that little stunt you pulled was NOT FUN FOR PAM. But she has three kids, so I guess I have to take her word for it. Also, interesting side note: getting a bikini wax while 38 weeks pregnant and wanting to see what it looks like is pretty much just a pipe dream. My poor esthetician actually held a mirror up to my privates (um, really didn’t need to see those, but thanks) to show me how the wax job looked. What do you say? Thank you? Very symmetrical? Wow, I bet my midwife will really appreciate how great I look when I push my baby out?

Actually, the whole to wax or not to wax thing was a big decision for me, considering I’ll be delivering at a hospital on a unit where I pretty much know everyone. I’m terrified of the birth, sure, but possibly even more so, I’m terrified of what everyone will think when they see me with my coochie hanging out. I myself try to be very respectful of my patients, but as one of the nurses I reported off to the other day would tell you, sometimes, when it comes to other people’s coochies, I can be pretty blunt. Which means other nurses can too. Not that I think they’ll all sit around the nurses’ station and say, “Wow, Pam got a great wax, I’ll have to ask where she went!” But you know. Or maybe you don’t know, and I’m just paranoid. OK, OK, I’m paranoid. But how often do you show your vagina to a fellow coworker? Never? That’s what I thought. At least my paranoia is somewhat justified.

On the docket for the rest of the week? A pedicure, lots of naps, and finishing the nursery. We’ve got our bags mostly packed, the car seat has been checked and is now installed correctly (I cried at the inspection place—did you know you can be a bad parent before you even have a freaking baby?), and the bassinet is set up in our bedroom. I think we’re ready. YOU HEAR THAT BABY? WE’RE READY. YOU CAN COME ANYTIME.

Moms, just curious, what did you do while you waited for your baby? Because I’m done working as of Saturday and checking the toilet for signs of my mucous plug just isn’t cutting it anymore.

Staying put

I visited my lovely midwife again Tuesday and learned that my current weight gain pattern of two pounds a week is perfectly normal and expected. When I asked if I was still measuring appropriately, you know, after the seven-pound disaster that was my last appointment, she reassured me that I was, and that “That seven pounds was definitely not all baby.” I think she was trying to be supportive, but her comment only made me think about where else I must be putting that weight, if not the belly. Ass and thighs come to mind. Possibly hips but who knows, because where I once had a fairly well defined waist, now there is just belly, no sign of any differentiation where my ribcage ends and my stomach begins. Sigh.

We also had a nice talk about my due date. For all intents and purposes, I will have carried this baby for 40 weeks on May 29th. HOWEVER, my official due date is May 30th. For this discrepancy, I blame Leap Year. Stupid extra day of the year. Stupid pregnancy wheel that doesn’t take this gross calendar faux pas into account. When I asked about induction and my midwife told me, “We won’t even TALK about that until you’re 41/1,” all I could think was that by then I’d really be 41/2. She was all, “You know an extra day doesn’t matter, right? Your due date is only an estimate.” The nurse in me knows she’s right. It’s only one day. However, the pregnant woman in me is seething. If I have not delivered this kid by 42 weeks (41/6, according to my midwife) I’ll be walking myself to the hospital and chaining myself to the bed until someone takes pity on me and yanks him out.

On a more positive note, we decided that the baby has indeed dropped. He’s still hanging out in his favorite place, curved along the left side of my uterus, but his head is engaged and he’s looking at my right hipbone. His little legs are curled up close to his body, as are his arms (fetal position! Who knew?). But he still remains as active as ever. His kicks and punches are actually starting to hurt a little. All the more reason to COME OUT NOW, BABY! YOU HEAR ME?

She didn’t check me, because 37/4 (37/5) is usually too early for anything real to be happening, and since my contractions are still fairly sporadic I didn’t push it. I have to admit, by the end of our appointment my midwife had brought me over to her side. She made me see that it’s NOT A BIG DEAL if the kid stays put a little while longer. You know, truthfully, he’s so much easier to care for in utero. No crying, no poopy diapers, aside from the occasional kick and my inability to sleep through the night, it’s cake. Normally I would have scheduled an appointment next week, but I didn’t even do that—why bother? She assured me that I would know if I go into labor (regular contractions, pain, possibly a puddle of water at my feet, I think I got it), and that if I needed to I could always call or come in. So I’m not going back until May 27th, which, coincidentally, is Chris’s birthday. We’re kind of secretly hoping I’ll have the kid then because he’s going to be a junior, and I don’t know, it just seems right, but if I don’t THAT’S OK. Because I’m a big girl. And my due date is just a number.

Three weeks. A boy. Tired, but pretty good overall.

I’m having t-shirts made. Or maybe just one t-shirt that I can wear to work. With the above answers to the three most common questions I receive oh, about every five minutes I’m there. I guess I should be thankful that I wasn’t showing early on in my pregnancy. Because it’s been a solid week of “When are you due?” “Do you know what you’re having?” and “How’ve you been feeling?” and I’m S-I-C-K of it. If the question asker ventures on past the standard three, he or she will be regaled with stories of how much it hurts for me to walk, how often I get up at night to go pee, and even one lucky person yesterday, how worried I am I’ll have hamburger crotch after delivery. You’re welcome!

I’ve been so preoccupied with these questions that finally I stopped to think of some other, more appropriate things people could choose to say to me at work (but thankfully, haven't. Yet). When I couldn’t bend over to take the plug for a patient’s IV pump out of the wall: “Wow, you’re belly’s really getting in the way, there, isn’t it?” (Seriously, I had to go get another nurse to help me move the bed so I could reach the damn outlet.) When I was helping a patient position her baby to breastfeed and she accidentally hit me in the belly: “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were that big.” When I was trying to get between a patient’s bed and the baby’s crib to check a blood pressure: “You can’t really fit through there anymore, can you?” And finally, my favorite, one that should have actually been said because doesn’t anyone have any sympathy for the pregnant woman anymore? When, after returning breathless to a room after walking up and down the hall no less than three times to fetch first icewater, then pads, and finally another t-shirt for the baby: “You really shouldn’t be walking up and down that long hallway so much. You’re going to go into labor!” I WISH.

Really, I should be grateful that my patients and their families are not this blunt. I should be glad they usually stop at the standard three. But there’s a part of me for which answering those questions is absolute torture. Repeating the same things, over and over, with no end in sight. I know sometimes after answer three my smile turns slightly downward into a grimace, begging the question-asker to keep going, to let me tell her how awful I really feel, how I wish my due date was tomorrow, how I want to be the one in the hospital bed, being waited on hand and foot. But I never do. Because however self-centered I am, however ready I am to just be done with this pregnancy, nothing is worth ruining a patient’s postpartum experience. Not even the incredible ache in my heart that tells me how much I long to be where she is, sitting in bed with a baby in her arms, on the other side of everything.

Never wanted an outie

So, the bellybutton is officially out. It had stopped at halfway out for a while, I think it had something to do with the hole from my old piercing, but now the bottom has caught up with the top and I’m the proud owner of an outie. I’ve named him Bob. And again, I’ve received some interesting comments on this latest pregnancy development, aka Bob. While some have said, “Oh, your bellybutton is so cute!” yesterday I was at work and a COMPLETE STRANGER (who was not a patient, thank goodness) helpfully shouted across the nurses’ station, “Your belly button is sticking out!” Thank you, Captain Obvious. And what would you like me to do with that comment? It definitely was not a compliment, possibly it was an insult, but you wouldn’t insult a pregnant woman, would you? All I could think of to say was, “Don’t I know it!” Because I look at that damn belly every day. And believe you me, I know it.

Also, I’m getting puffy. I really didn’t think I would get puffy until 38 weeks. In fact, that’s what I’ve been telling everyone when they say I’m carrying the baby well, I say, “Wait til 38 weeks. I’m sure I’ll explode then.” But that explosion has come about a week and two days early, by my calculations. My rings don’t fit, and when I woke up this morning, my face was puffy. I tried all manner of facial exercises to get it to look different, but there’s definitely some puff there. I’m hoping that maybe if I take a shower and apply the appropriate makeup I’ll be able to camouflage the puffiness for a little while longer. Wait a minute, showering? Who am I kidding? These days I’m lucky if I can change out of my pajamas. New plan: I just won’t leave the house until it’s time to deliver this kid.

In non-pregnancy news, guess what? I’ve moved from the night shift to the day shift at work! This is something I’ve been hoping would happen for a long time. With the baby coming, and my obsessiveness over his sleeping schedule (I’ve been so occupied with my pregnancy woes I haven’t posted much about my baby woes, but sleep is one of my bigger concerns), I was worried we wouldn’t be able to establish a reasonable sleeping/waking pattern for Baby Smitty if I was working the night shift. Like, how could I expect him to sleep through the night when I myself don’t even do that? Plus there were daycare worries, and more helpful people saying, “If you work nights and Chris works days, you won’t need a babysitter!” Yeah, except WHEN WOULD I SLEEP?

So really, this change couldn’t have come at a better time. I’ve been on days for a week and a half now and it’s been great. It’s wonderful to wake up IN THE MORNING, eat breakfast, go to work, come home, eat dinner, and go to bed. AT NIGHT. Like normal people do. There are so many amazing benefits to working days too. Like, I can drink coffee in the morning. You don’t know how hard it was to smell the coffee the doctors would bring in in the morning and know I couldn’t have any because I had to go home and go to sleep. I can take this stuff down from our bedroom windows. I can eat in the cafeteria at work—it’s open during my entire shift! I can also watch normal TV on my break—no more infomercials for me. And I can go out at night! I get home from work around 8 and that leaves plenty of time for extracurriculars. The list, really, is endless. I can’t believe I worked night shift for so long, put up with the schedule and the lifestyle for so many months. I’m glad I did it, I am, but I’m so much more thankful for this change! It’s like, in a way, I have my life back. And when I have to give up the sleep and the normal schedule for Baby Smitty in a few weeks, it still will have been worth it.