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.