So when exactly are you supposed to have that moment? You know, the moment where it really hits you that you're going to have an actual baby? Because we are currently at T-minus twenty-seven days and, yeah... I still don't really get it.
I feel like I've been pregnant for five million years. I am used to being pregnant. But I still can't quite grasp the idea that we're going to have an actual baby in twenty-seven days. (Please don't remind me that babies are known to show up before their due date. Twenty-seven days sounds soon enough.)
It's crazy to me that we won't be wondering whether it's a boy or a girl any more. We'll know. We'll be able to see this thing that's been doing gymnastics in my stomach. I just can't get my brain wrapped around that. I know it's true, but I just can't imagine what that's going to be like. At this point, I'm not sure if I'll actually get it until I see the actual baby in the hospital.
I will tell you this, though: I'm ready to be done with being pregnant. I think I've said that before, but I had no idea what I was talking about back then. This time I mean it. My feet hurt worse than I ever would have thought possible, from the superhuman task of sitting in an office chair most of the day. (Yes, I am walking around plenty and putting my feet up and all that. And yet, I wake up in the middle of the night to pee and actually limp to the bathroom because my heels hurt so much.) My hands are so swollen that my fingertips are numb most of the day. I am officially up 30+ pounds, and man, it feels like it. I feel like a whale. And then I catch a glimpse of myself in a window or a mirror and I look even more whale-like than I feel! But at least whales can just pee in the ocean whenever they want without having to limp-waddle to the bathroom. Lucky bastards.
So yes, I am ready to be done with this gestational business. But at the same time I'd like to stretch out our pre-baby lives by just a few more weeks. On Sunday night as I was lamenting the untimely end of yet another weekend, I realized that we only have two more free weekends with just the two of us. Over Labor Day we have a wedding to go to, and the weekend after that is my last yoga teacher training. And then the baby is due two days later. So we have next weekend and the weekend after that to do our normal hang around the house, watch movies, run errands routine. Two more weekends of normalcy... for the rest of our lives. I can't comprehend this whole living, breathing baby thing but I can understand THAT. And... holy shit. Can I get a pause button or something?
Next Tuesday I'll officially be full term, 37 weeks. ON TUESDAY OF NEXT WEEK. I should basically be prepared to go into labor at any time after that.
Heh, labor. See, I'd kind of purposely forgotten about that, telling myself it was far away in the future and there was no point fretting about it. And now it's almost here and guys: I am scared.
During one of our yoga teacher trainings, the meditation teacher told a story that helped me immensely at the time. As the story goes, two young monks living in a remote monastery came across an older monk sitting on a bench. In his hand he had a pair of pliers. The pliers held a bloody tooth. The young monks were horrified and asked the older monk why he'd done such an awful thing -- pull out his own tooth with a pair of pliers! -- when they would have happily taken him to the dentist in the nearest village. "Didn't it hurt?" they asked him. "Well, it didn't hurt when I realized the tooth was rotten and needed to be pulled. It didn't hurt when I walked to the shed and got out the pliers. It didn't hurt when I put the pliers in my mouth. When pulled it out, that hurt for a moment. But now it doesn't hurt any more."
That story was exactly what I needed to hear at the time, after that horrible childbirth class had scared the pants off of both of us. There is nothing to be gained by working myself into a lather thinking about horrible labor is going to be. There is no point in scaring myself, worrying about what if my epidural doesn't work or what if I have to have a C-section and I can feel the doctor rooting around in my insides, what if I can't handle the contractions, what if the entire thing is just as terrible as everyone says it is. There is no turning back. It will be what it is, I will live through it, and then it will be over. The end.
Well, that was a lot easier to tell myself when it was still a nebulous event months and months away at some point in the unimaginable future. Not twenty-seven freaking days away. Or less! Oh god, it could be less. So I've been doing the sensible thing, staying awake until 3am worrying about it and being annoyed by my numb hands.
Tell me it's not going to be that bad. I don't care if you're lying.
I can't believe that I am posting this picture, but here you go. Official 35-week photo! Next time Joel asks me if I really want to take a photo in my sweaty yoga clothes, please remind me to listen to the man.
(HEY LOOK IT'S A CRIB OMG. See guys, I told you we were going to get our act together eventually!)
(We don't exactly have a Pottery Barn nursery going on, but we are basically ready for the baby at home. Well, sort of. We have the crib set up. We have the somewhat random assortment of baby clothes that we own washed and stuffed into the drawers of a little changing table/dresser that we bought off Craigslist. We lugged all the hand-me-down stuff that was generously given to us by a coworker up from the basement. I have the vague feeling that we are going to need a whole lot more stuff -- for instance, we currently have three pairs of socks. Do you think we need more than that? What if we have about ten footed sleeper outfits? We're probably OK on socks then, right? I sure hope so, since the only socks I could find at Target that weren't for 6+months were those little Carter's gift sets that cost $7.99 for four pairs. I'm sorry, but I'm not paying $1 per sock. Plus, we don't have any more space for more stuff. So three pairs of socks is the limit. Sorry, baby. We should have registered for a bigger house instead of eight swaddling blankets.)