Every Thursday for the last thirty something odd weeks I have excitedly woken up, rolled over (with varying degrees of difficulty) and read the latest weekly update in my pregnancy book. One more week down, one more week of updates, one more week I can mark off that imaginary calendar I have been watching since late October.
This morning though I rolled over (with an incredible amount of difficulty), grunted as I lifted the incredibly heavy book, and read the paragraph under Week 38. And you know what it said? I am paraphrasing of course, but basically it said, your kid is just hanging out making you miserable and there is very little of interest for us to tell you. Great. Thanks for the mind blowing update.
This got me thinking about the last few weeks of pregnancy. They are a real mixed bag of emotions. I mean on the one hand, I thank God every day that my little baby is healthy and happy in his little home and that he is continuing to develop normally and is set for a 40-week delivery date. But there is this selfish part of me that wishes his little home didn't happen to be wedged between my rib cage and my bladder. And an even worse part of me that rears its ugly head more and more that wishes his little home would become so inhospitable that he would decide to move out a little early - like yesterday preferably. And with every baby you see on Facebook that came a week or two early, its hard not to grumble and think, look at that overachiever, getting out and ahead of the game three weeks early. My kid's too lazy to even cause an efficient dilation.
And perhaps this is the root of the problem. For those of you who really know me, you know that I am your stereotypical, Type A, oldest child, control freak, overachiever. I make schedules and lists and itineraries for everything, including my spouse - which drives him crazy but I just can't help myself. Seriously, I can tell you what time I plan on waking up on Saturday three weeks from now. I finished college in three years. I finished law school in two and half. I got married seven days after I graduated from law school. Why do I tell you this? Not to brag, oh heavens now, this is nothing to be proud of. This is to show you how neurotic I really am. If there is a deadline, I will have it done before most people even read the directions.
And for that reason, it really, really pisses me off that there isn't a dang thing I can do to get this show on the road. I know June 30 is the due date, not the deadline. But for me, it seems like if the chicken's done sitting, -lets get this egg a-crackin'. (Whoa Farmer Jones reference, not sure where that came from). And there is also nothing I can do to know for sure that he won't come before (or after) June 30. It irks me that I can't schedule this thing for everyone who wants to be there and for all the things I want to have done juuuuust before he gets here. I mean I spent ten minutes the other day on the phone with the dog groomer debating when I should get my dogs groomed so that they would be nice and clipped with the baby got here but I wanted to make sure I didn't get them in too late and interfere with the baby's delivery if he came a little earlier. In case you were wondering, Angie at PetSmart does not know when my baby will be born. She is only a dog groomer not a psychic and would I please quit calling and rescheduling - just pick a day and go with it.
All of this aggravation is compounded by the fact that all those little "indicators" that your about to go into labor are a bunch of crap. Last week, I went in with no expectation that I would be dilated at all - but cheered when Doc said oh, you are one centimeter! I thought, heck yeah this kid is coming out early. Then for the past two days, I have the most uncomfortable contractions in an on-again, off-again fashion but still they have been there. I go into my appointment yesterday so proud of myself; I have been walking and walking and walking, I have been having what I would call contractions and pressure and all the things they tell you to look for. I called all the relatives and told them that this baby was coming soon; I made my husband delay a business trip; I even went and had a pedicure so I would like nice for the hospital staff because I was SURE, just sure I was about to go into labor any second. So I bebop into the doctor's office yesterday. I think to myself, she is going to be so proud at how much I have dilated. I am probably going to have to go straight to the ER I am going to be so far along. And guess what?!
I WAS THE EXACT FREAKING SAME AS I WAS LAST WEEK. All that for NOTHING?! I wanted to scream and cry and basically went into a little funk for the rest of the day. I was devastated when they gave me that appointment card for next Thursday and really irritated when my doctor so sweetly reminded me that I have two more weeks and one day until my due date. Oh, and those "contractions" I am having? Yeah, those are called peri-contractions (or something like that) and they can last for weeks, yes I said weeks, before the real thing starts up. Double Awesome on that boat load of fun. It only feels as if my insides are wrapping around a corkscrew.
But this morning, after eating an entire batch of slice and bake cookies and sleeping for a solid twelve hours last night I realized something. As much as I want it to be, this is the one thing in my life that I can't schedule when convenient, I can't make better or faster or more efficient because I worked at it a little harder, studied a little longer, or just made a better game plan. The thing with this kid is, and I have a sneaking suspicion that this will continue for the rest of his existence, he doesn't necessarily fit squarely into my color coded calendar. He doesn't care if his arrival date isn't convenient or that his mother is quite uncomfortable and hot. No. He is going to force me to relax my rigid routine, sit back, and enjoy the ride - wherever that ride may go and whenever it may begin are completely out of my hands now.
So until that day that Wyatt decides he is ready to join the world (and COMPLETELY screw up my Type A lifestyle - forever) I'll just be sitting here a-waitin' on the dilatin.' But if it did happen to happen to today, I wouldn't be upset. Just saying.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Poetry in Motion
I went to the doctor today for my first weekly appointment. Let me give you a brief run down:
I wait. And wait. And wait. At one point I consider peeing on myself, acting like its my water breaking, and seeing if maybe, just maybe, it could get me to see the doctor a little quicker. But then I thought it over, decided it would most likely just lead to me sitting in my own urine for the next undetermined amount of time, and continued to read today's magazine of choice; the cover article was how not to blow up out of anger at your children, spouse, and coworkers . I didn't read the article though because it went on and on for like five pages, with no bullet points or charts, which was incredibly irritating, I was irritated already at having to sit at the doctor for a freaking hour, and my phone kept going off with irritatingly needy work related emails. Its bad when you are too aggravated and angry to read an article about how to calm yourself down when aggravated and angry.
Then they finally call me back and as always want me to pee into that tiny cup. Over the past gazillion doctors appointments I have gotten really good at peeing into a cup. I might even say an expert. However, the last two trips to the doctor I have found this endeavor to be quite tricky. I mean they should give you a bigger cup when you can no longer see your toes. I found myself today squatting over the toilet actually trying to lift my huge belly up and out of the way to try and aim correctly. Probably too much information for most of you, but I always try to be nothing but honest. And, I think that if there is some enterprising person reading this, I am really on to something - you could even come up with a catch-y name. Like the Porky Person Pee Pod. And you will need a slogan, what about: When you can no longer see your pee, we will catch it, we guarantee. I like it. Put it to music and you have a hit on your hands. And not urine. Okay, I must move on, but I swear I am on to something here.
Then they put me in my little room for more waiting. As you know its hot as the devil's playground outside and my feet were already swelling, but after fifteen minutes with them just dangling over the side of that table they were actually starting to turn purple. So whats a gal to do? I just laid back, plopped my fat toes in the stirrups and closed my eyes. With nothing but a thin piece of paper draped across my lower half. Which would have been great if I had heard the doctor outside the door. But she busted in while I was nodding off and I couldn't seem to get my canckles extracted from the stirrups quick enough. And to top it all off, there is no way I can sit up quickly and in my haste, I ended up ripping that stupid paper sheet to shreds. Awesome. She just kind of stood there with an amazed expression as I desperately tried to sit up, continually ripping that sheet into smaller and smaller pieces. Then, when I get all the way sitting up, sweating of course my this point, she says, okay, lay back, put your feet in the stirrups, we are going to check you!
Should have read that magazine article in the waiting room.
So then, she proceeds to check me to see if I am dilated. And with no pomp or circumstance, gives me the crushing blow in her always cheery voice, "everything looks perfect, he is still sitting way up there, you haven't dilated at all, and no need to see you until next week." She follows this up with a "right on schedule for the end of the month." Oh golly gee, lady, that is GREAT. Four more weeks of this? I mean I know folks that its best for a baby to stay in there until he's ready and you should want your baby to come on their due date and not four weeks early. But you have got to be kidding me. The heat index outside is like four billion. I swear my insides are bruised from the not so tiny foot that is permanently lodged into my side. And I have sweat in areas I can't even reach to wipe off.
WYATT YOU HAVE WORN OUR YOUR WELCOME. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. Vacate the premises. Mommy is miserable and its your fault. Get out, get out, GET OUT.
Whew. Really should have read that article
But, on the bright side, I have a perfectly healthy six pound-ish baby that I get to see next Friday (my final sonogram, not the actual baby). In my constant attempt to be optimistic about things I have come up with a poem for my last few weeks of pregnancy:
heat, heartburn, heftiness,
for this child I am blessed.
swollen boobs, legs, and feet,
I love to hear his sweet heartbeat,
surely I can go four more weeks,
then I can kiss those sweet, fat cheeks.
This is much better than the first poem I came up with which went something like this:
I'm sorry kid but you have to go,
my patience is running low
vacate my body very soon,
I am totally out of room,
you are really getting to be a pain,
and I'm starting to go insane,
I cannot breathe or sleep or eat,
and this record breaking heat!
sooner than later would be great,
perhaps your due date was a mistake?
so come on Wyatt, come right now,
your mommy feels like a big fat cow.
I wait. And wait. And wait. At one point I consider peeing on myself, acting like its my water breaking, and seeing if maybe, just maybe, it could get me to see the doctor a little quicker. But then I thought it over, decided it would most likely just lead to me sitting in my own urine for the next undetermined amount of time, and continued to read today's magazine of choice; the cover article was how not to blow up out of anger at your children, spouse, and coworkers . I didn't read the article though because it went on and on for like five pages, with no bullet points or charts, which was incredibly irritating, I was irritated already at having to sit at the doctor for a freaking hour, and my phone kept going off with irritatingly needy work related emails. Its bad when you are too aggravated and angry to read an article about how to calm yourself down when aggravated and angry.
Then they finally call me back and as always want me to pee into that tiny cup. Over the past gazillion doctors appointments I have gotten really good at peeing into a cup. I might even say an expert. However, the last two trips to the doctor I have found this endeavor to be quite tricky. I mean they should give you a bigger cup when you can no longer see your toes. I found myself today squatting over the toilet actually trying to lift my huge belly up and out of the way to try and aim correctly. Probably too much information for most of you, but I always try to be nothing but honest. And, I think that if there is some enterprising person reading this, I am really on to something - you could even come up with a catch-y name. Like the Porky Person Pee Pod. And you will need a slogan, what about: When you can no longer see your pee, we will catch it, we guarantee. I like it. Put it to music and you have a hit on your hands. And not urine. Okay, I must move on, but I swear I am on to something here.
Then they put me in my little room for more waiting. As you know its hot as the devil's playground outside and my feet were already swelling, but after fifteen minutes with them just dangling over the side of that table they were actually starting to turn purple. So whats a gal to do? I just laid back, plopped my fat toes in the stirrups and closed my eyes. With nothing but a thin piece of paper draped across my lower half. Which would have been great if I had heard the doctor outside the door. But she busted in while I was nodding off and I couldn't seem to get my canckles extracted from the stirrups quick enough. And to top it all off, there is no way I can sit up quickly and in my haste, I ended up ripping that stupid paper sheet to shreds. Awesome. She just kind of stood there with an amazed expression as I desperately tried to sit up, continually ripping that sheet into smaller and smaller pieces. Then, when I get all the way sitting up, sweating of course my this point, she says, okay, lay back, put your feet in the stirrups, we are going to check you!
Should have read that magazine article in the waiting room.
So then, she proceeds to check me to see if I am dilated. And with no pomp or circumstance, gives me the crushing blow in her always cheery voice, "everything looks perfect, he is still sitting way up there, you haven't dilated at all, and no need to see you until next week." She follows this up with a "right on schedule for the end of the month." Oh golly gee, lady, that is GREAT. Four more weeks of this? I mean I know folks that its best for a baby to stay in there until he's ready and you should want your baby to come on their due date and not four weeks early. But you have got to be kidding me. The heat index outside is like four billion. I swear my insides are bruised from the not so tiny foot that is permanently lodged into my side. And I have sweat in areas I can't even reach to wipe off.
WYATT YOU HAVE WORN OUR YOUR WELCOME. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here. Vacate the premises. Mommy is miserable and its your fault. Get out, get out, GET OUT.
Whew. Really should have read that article
But, on the bright side, I have a perfectly healthy six pound-ish baby that I get to see next Friday (my final sonogram, not the actual baby). In my constant attempt to be optimistic about things I have come up with a poem for my last few weeks of pregnancy:
heat, heartburn, heftiness,
for this child I am blessed.
swollen boobs, legs, and feet,
I love to hear his sweet heartbeat,
surely I can go four more weeks,
then I can kiss those sweet, fat cheeks.
This is much better than the first poem I came up with which went something like this:
I'm sorry kid but you have to go,
my patience is running low
vacate my body very soon,
I am totally out of room,
you are really getting to be a pain,
and I'm starting to go insane,
I cannot breathe or sleep or eat,
and this record breaking heat!
sooner than later would be great,
perhaps your due date was a mistake?
so come on Wyatt, come right now,
your mommy feels like a big fat cow.
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