Before I start a productive post this week I would like to take a minute to list all of the things that I’m not going to miss about being pregnant:
- Tums. Good riddance
- Not wearing my wedding ring
- Tiny feet in my ribs at odd hours of the night
- Using the bathroom 5 times a night
- Sensitive gag reflex
- Restricted diet
In case that list doesn’t make the point clear, I’m starting to get frustrated with being uncomfortable, throwing up, peeing, and being kicked by someone who I can’t ask to stop (not that I imagine he’s going to listen, anyway).
Think I’m kidding about popping Tums like Skittles?Screw you, acid reflux.
On to a more exciting and less angry topic: What all of this is for! Our baby is 17 inches, and tips the scales at over 4 pounds. “His skeleton is hardening” ….. You don’t say. Except for his skull, which will expand and grow to fit his enormously brilliant brain as he gets older. It’s a good thing his head will grow to accommodate his brain because someone’s going to have to show me how to use the electronic devices of the future!
I think his moves are visible from space.
And I’m starting to FREAK OUT that there is an actual baby inside of me instead of just a hypothetical concept of a baby. Obviously I knew I was pregnant and how this all works, but I’ve been so focused on keeping him in that it hit me this week like a tiny Tasmanian Devil that this is really happening and he is going to have to eventually come out. And (I’m just going to come out and say it), when I realized that I’m never going to sleep in again, it will never just be Angel and I again, and NOTHING will be the same, I started to question if this is really what I want. Obviously it is, this is just what new mom panic looks like for me. All of that time that I spent decorating my house? My child is about to redecorate with puke, toys, and mismatched food stains. I’m never going to know what a clean and decorated house feels like again. And then I feel ENORMOUSLY guilty for even questioning if I want this little man because OBVIOUSLY I do. I just clearly don’t handle this much change as well as I did when this little guy was just a hypothetical baby in my belly the last 8 months and the changes were hypothetical as well.
My baby at 33 weeks:
So here I am: Mom of the Year.
This realization came yesterday when I was at the doctor and he pulled out a calendar, pointed to a specific date, and asked how I felt about being induced then. Granted this all depends on my body showing signs of getting ready for labor by November 18th, but Holy Crap! this is really happening. And then he gave me a speech about nursing, what to expect with a newborn, and signs that I now need to be looking for as indicators that I need to go directly to the hospital. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. So this is really happening, huh? I must have looked panicked because he told me that “universally, babies born after 32 weeks do just fine” and then looked at my chart and informed me that I was 33 so I’m just keeping him out of the hospital now. All righty- so this is all going to happen? huh
Before this panic yesterday, I was planning on talking about how we got the rest of the nursery furniture and I nested the room to beautiful perfection, but now it all seems totally futile when I ask you all if you KNEW THIS LITTLE GUY WAS ACTUALLY EXPECTED TO COME HOME WITH ME AT THE END OF THIS?! Right, because he’s my son who’s first few words will probably include calling me mom. Which clearly can’t be right because “Mom” is my mom, not me. And when he says mom, I’m immediately going to be on the look out for her: Really? where?So panic. Got it covered.
This makes me appreciate Angel not showing emotion as openly as I do. Can you imagine 2 of me in my house instead of just me and someone laughing at me, calling me crazy, and finally annoyingly telling me: “it’s fine, babe.” I can’t imagine how I would feel if I started freaking out about the obvious and Angel jumped on board with an “Ohmygod! What do we do?!” One of us needs to be calm, and I think I’ve demonstrated in the last 847 words that that is not me. Clearly.
2 and a half weeks of work left. That’s all. And then I get a few weeks off to panic some more. And then there’s going to be, like, a baby, or something. That I’m going to have to take care of. Well I’ll be damned. This is really happening.
OR, I could be the first woman who ever keeps her child in utero forever. Option 2 sounds safer. How do I arrange that?