The Waiting Game
Still here! Still pregnant! Still being driven crazy at the thought of going into labor anywhere, anytime. I’m kind of hoping it happens tomorrow morning at 9am, when I’m scheduled to fill in for the receptionist at work for an hour.
“Good morning, thank you for calling OH HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK MY UTERUS!!”
Spats has been an extremely well-behaved fetus, and stayed put throughout my hair appointment last week (highlights and a trim!), spa appointment this weekend (pedicure and maternity massage!) and, uh, brewster maintenance appointment last night (bikini wax! Because you wouldn’t host a party without cleaning the house, now would you?). I realize all these appointments make me sound extremely high maintenance, but really it was just a combination of knowing I’d be a bit busy and bat-shit insane over the next several months, plus a generous spa gift card that Brad gave me at Christmas.
He gave the gift of “For God’s sake, take some pride in your appearance!”
And although I’m not a very regular spa-goer, HOLY SHIT it was nice to spend my Sunday afternoon in a really soft, puffy terrycloth robe, sipping water with lemon (they didn’t even offer me the usual complimentary glass of white wine – freakin’ prudes), and getting all oiled up and rubbed down.
“Smack it up, flip it, rub it down – oh noooooo!”
I tried my very best to enjoy every last minute of it, especially because I’ve been bombarded with advice along the lines of “Make sure you enjoy lots of alone time!” and “Go on a date with your husband!” lately. And yes, I GET IT: once the baby comes, she will kind of – you know – HAVE MOST OF OUR ATTENTION FOR THE NEXT 18 YEARS OR SO, but seriously? Brad and I have been married for nearly nine years. All nine of those years have been filled with lots of alone-time countless date nights. It’s kind of hard to appreciate something that I’ve been living with for such a long time.
Not to mention that it is hard to enjoy “date night” when you feel like this and fall dead asleep every night by 8pm.
ANYHOO, now that my week of self-maintenance is over…I have nothing else planned. No appointments, no commitments, no nothing. Except having a baby. OH MY GOD.
This is where distraction and denial come into play. Work has been a wonderful distraction, since everyone is now faced with my imminent maternity leave and is trying to squeeze every last drop of work out of me while they can, and when I’m home it’s just business as usual – making dinner, doing laundry, watching some movies or TV. It’s the little moments after the movie, or in the middle of the night, or when my alarm first goes off in the morning and I try (and fail) to hoist my massive self out of bed that I realize this baby is A-COMIN’. And then I promptly immerse myself into daily life, because not knowing (and not being able to PLAN) when she will show up makes me more than a little weak in the knees.
Is making me wait. AND MAKING ME CRAZY.
I get the most frightened about going into labor late at night (when I feel so exhausted I think there is NO WAY I’d ever have the energy to push out a baby) and first thing in the morning (because I spend a few minutes each morning wondering how in the world I could possibly manage to stay in bed that day). Of course, I think I’m underestimating a little thing called NERVES AND ADRENALIN and also EXTREME PAIN, because I’m pretty sure no one has ever dozed off during active labor – but Internet, I am the woman who pressed the snooze alarm so many times the morning of her own wedding that her mother stood over her bed and shouted, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”
Five more minutes!
At the risk of tempting fate (or tempting fetus) (tempting fate-us?), my gut feeling is that Spats is still at least a few days away from arriving. I’m basing this on my completely unfounded and unscientific belief that not a lot of Braxton-Hicks contractions lately = Baby? What Baby? Let’s Go On Vacation!!
(Although on Monday, I had a lot of contractions. A LOT. But they stopped! So, whatever.)
(And yes, I know I have no reason to believe that lack of B-H contractions means I’m far away from labor, but I am really looking forward to the casserole I’m making for dinner tonight so just LET ME BELIEVE I will at least make it that far.)
I go to the midwives tomorrow for the usual early morning carnival of blood pressure, urine, and doppler, so I guess we’ll see where we stand after that. Although – much to my mother’s chagrin – the midwives don’t conduct internal exams to determine dilation/effacement unless you are having some serious labor symptoms or you specifically request it (and I totally haven’t requested it because I’ve heard they hurt and I see no reason to have someone’s hand up my vagina at 8am unless I’m actually in labor and/or have been drinking), so I don’t know how much they’ll be able to tell me. So just keep checking here (and especially my Twitter feed) for updates, my fine Internet friends.
Am just now realizing I voiced a preference for seeing A CASSEROLE over seeing MY BABY’S FACE FOR THE FIRST TIME. Oh, whatever. It’s a really good casserole, you guys.
Entry filed under: And you KNOW THIS!.