I’m a whale.
At this point I’ve outgrown most of my maternity t shirts, the stretch marks are multiplying like rabbits, and “little” Baby Rivas is overstaying his welcome in my belly. It’s time to get out.
He’s probably about as long as he’s going to be at birth now, he’s as developed as he’s going to get now, and he’s just packing on about half a pound a week of pure, unadulterated baby chub. He’s considered full term, so from here on out he is JUST STRAIGHT FREELOADING.
Despite feeling whale-ish, lacking a good night’s sleep, and not remembering if I unplugged my hair dryer (ever, anymore), I have this crazy burst of nervous energy that I’m taking out on my house and those in it. My dog has been groomed, my car has been detailed, and my house was professionally scrubbed clean after I cleaned out and scrubbed the inside of my fridge. Those who have never been pregnant before give me the patronizing “oh, you’re just nesting” but any women who has had a baby before totally gets it. There are fingerprints on those windows and unless i get to the Windex right this minute I’ll be looking at those finger prints 6 months from now. Oh my God, what am I waiting for? Get to the Windex RIGHT THIS MINUTE!!
I just got home from the doctor. Going to the doctor never fails to make me feel like a rock star. The lady at the front desk always remarks about how great I look, the doctor always seems totally unconcerned about everything, and I always walk out totally excited. He may be as old as dirt, but I just can’t trade in this comfortable, happy feeling for a younger doctor with better technology. Ever.
He informed me that he has me scheduled to be induced at 12:01am on November 18th. He said it’ll get moved if I’m not dilated by then, which I’m not at all yet, and the only thing that he said will help is walking. So I have 7 days to become a marathon walker if I want this kiddo out of my body at 39 weeks. Which I do.
So for the next 7 days, my blog is going to turn into a diary of the million mile march. I’m starting by going to the grocery store, parking as far away as possible, plowing through a crazy long list of things to get so that I can fill my freezer with homemade food (see: nesting), and then I’m going to make Angel go on a walk with Molly and I after dinner until my legs fall off. I have 7 days to walk, walk, walk, walk, and 13 days to cook, cook, cook, cook. All while blasting inappropriate music as loud as possible in every attempt to make Mini Me as uncomfortable as possible.
It’s time to come out, little man.