I’m Not Coming Out; You Can’t Make Me
First, let me complete the quejarse circle by responding to each and every one of your complaints with a hearty OH MY GOD, THAT SUCKS, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?!?! Because that is how we roll.
[But MLE: if you will forgive this injection of optimism, I have to say that the fact that cutting chocolate from your diet has had no impact on how your clothing fits is actually AWESOME, because it means that there is NO POINT in denying yourself wonderful, life-giving chocolate. Who knows – maybe your body is trying to tell you to cut out salad instead? Won’t know until you try, my friend.]
Oh HELL yes.
Can I just share how much I’ve been craving a goddamn brownie sundae throughout this pregnancy? And not just any brownie sundae: one from SHONEY’S. You folks from the South know what I’m talkin’ ’bout.
The Shoney Bear: haunting your dreams since 1947.
ANYWAY. As you may have divined from my fixation on brownie sundaes, I am still pregnant. I actually took the day off yesterday due to a night of uncomfortable contractions and all-around crappy-feeling-ness, but nothing came of it. I had another restless night last night, but at my midwife appointment this morning she determined that – although the baby’s head has limbo-ed down as low as she can go and I am 50% effaced – I am not dilated at all. “But that doesn’t really mean anything,” said the nice, pretty midwife, who then quickly ducked out of the room because she sensed I was about ready to WEAR IT OUT ON HER.
Dilate THIS, sucka!
She also had me make two more appointments: one for next Friday at which I’ll do a stress test to determine that the baby is still OK in there, and one the following week for an ultrasound – at which point they will also schedule me for an induction.
And if I make it that far, I am totally driving to West Virginia for a Shoney’s brownie sundae because WAAAAAAAAAH.
I know it’s absolutely insane, but there is a huge part of my brain that does not believe for a second that I am going to have a baby. I logically know she’s going to come out of there sometime, yet my constant monitoring for contractions/other labor symptoms totally reminds me of when I was trying to get pregnant, and how every day past a missed period was filled with me trying to convince myself that every little twinge was a sign that I was totally knocked up for reals. And I KNOW it’s crazy, because I KNOW she cannot just hang out in my (obviously very comfortable) uterus forever, but it does start to feel that way at 40 weeks.
These poor saps gestate for 22 MONTHS, and WE WONDER WHY THEY GO ROGUE?!
So! Distraction is the order of the day. My goal is to make plans upon plans until I tempt fate to have my water break in public so many times that it actually happens. Do you hear that, amniotic fluid? I DARE you to show your cowardly face at a 9pm showing of Adventureland tomorrow night!
Was totally filmed in Pittsburgh, by the by.
Oh, and I’d like to send a special thanks to my friend Paige, who tried very mightily to make me go into labor last night using her mad ice-cream-blending skillz. It didn’t work, obviously, but that doesn’t mean I’m above giving her another chance to serve me huge portions of ice cream in the hope that it’s the magical, homeopathic labor-inducing miracle the medical industry has been keeping under its greedy little toup.
You are fooling no one, sir.
Entry filed under: Gobble-gobble.