I’m full term. Holy crap. Over the past nine months, I’ve thought a lot about how I would feel at this point in the pregnancy. Ready? Panicked? Calm and Maternal? Apparently, how I would feel is like a giant, clumsy, sweaty, disorganized mess. While the nursery is nearing completion, it’s not finished. While we have almost everything we need, I’m convinced I’ll never have the right amount of newborn clothes, or that she’ll reject everything I do have, and I’ll be cursed to troll the aisles of Rite Aid at 3am frantically looking for a fresh pack of onesies because my daughter has poo-sploded over every last bit of our stock. I’ve all but given up on looking presentable and wearing pants, because at this point….fuck you. Oh, and my feet. My poor enormous feet. (I can’t help but wonder where I dropped the ball on this whole “pregnant” thing to have devolved into such a whiny uncomfortable mess by 37 weeks. I mean, I’m taking prenatal yoga! What more do you want from me, pregnancy gods?!)
…And in what may have been the final nail in the coffin of my dignity (I hear all of that stuff goes out the window when you deliver anyway) I spilled pee all over the floor at my OB appointment this week. You know how they ask you to pee in a cup when you go to the doctor’s office? Yeah. Spilled it. Like, everywhere. When I finally emerged from what must have seemed like the longest pee in the history of peeing to the poor unsuspecting folks waiting for the restroom, the nurse took one look at me all flushed in the face (still holding the measly pee sample I had managed to squeeze out of my bladder after mopping up the original sample from the floor on my hands and knees…so gross) and said matter-of-factly with only a hint of a smirk: “spilled your sample?” Special thanks to nurse Leslie for making me feel like it happens all the time. I’m certain it does not.
How far along? 37 weeks.
Total weight gain/loss: It’s not even funny anymore.
Stretch marks? Why do I feel like this questionnaire is constantly mocking me?
Sleep: It’s 4:51am. You do the math.
Best moment this week: I did some Maternity photos with Sara and she managed to capture me not looking like a total whale. (That’s one of the teasers she sent me, up there.) The girl’s a genius.
Movement: This kid has no mercy. She kicks you where it counts.
Food cravings: Chocolate. And Tuna.
Gender: Girl.
Labor Signs: Um, yes.
Belly Button in or out? Just barely in.
What I miss: Range of motion. It’s freaking ridiculous how useless I’ve become.
What I am looking forward to: Not feeling like I am about to explode.
Weekly Wisdom: It’s ugly at the end. No matter how uncomfortable you think you are, it gets worse. Which is a scary thought, since it could still be a while.
Milestones: (Be warned, we’re entering dangerous territory here. I’ve reached a crossroads where I must ask myself: “Do I want to discuss the state of my vagina on the internet?” I hope you guys aren’t squeamish, ’cause it looks like the answer is yes.) Weekly checkups now include internals, and there’s actual PROGRESS to report. 80% Effaced. 4 cm Dilated. Baby at -1 station. And the dreaded MP has started to emerge. This shit is on like Donkey Kong.
Feed Me Seymour
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