The Big 4-1
Me: Large, uncomfortable, righteously pissed off after an entire day of painful contractions came to a screeching halt at 6pm last night, officially 41 weeks pregnant.
Fetus: Just fine where she is, thanks.
I hope she remembers to bring that flashlight out with her.
Not a whole lot to report today, Internet. We have an appointment with the midwives this afternoon, at which they’re going to perform a non-stress test (making me wear the fetal heartrate monitor for 30 minutes) to make sure Spats is not under any duress (UNLIKE HER VERY IMPATIENT PARENTS), and then I’ll go through the regular prenatal rundown: blood pressure, weighing, peeing, whining, bargaining with God, etc.
Of course, in my imagination I picture the midwife telling me that I’ve magically dilated to 5cm and that they’re going to admit me and get this show on the road already, but I have a feeling we’ll probably get sent home with a “Just be patient,” and a pat on the back. And that’s FINE – really, it is – because I’d much prefer to have to spend some more time in my Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float of a body than to find out Spats’ heartrate is unusually low or something scary like that…but MY GOD we are so impatient to meet her around here.
Well, not ALL of us.
As always, I’ll keep you posted, Internet. I’ll try my best to get this baby out. The sooner she gets here, the sooner I will have stories to share about how her first word was “cocksucker,” or something equally adorable as that.
I wish I could compete with your stories of childhood profanities, but this geek’s first word was “toast.” Also, this is what the teen years hold for you, Spats. Sorry about that. I think I’m beginning to see why you don’t want to come out.
And just for gratuitous cuteness, I give you Tootsie circa 2001. Her first word would land you in jail in Oklahoma. Also: AWWWWWW.
Entry filed under: Gobble-gobble.