Waiting...

This whole waiting to go into labor, expecting it, is totally new for me.

When I went into labor with Suzannah, I was very much not expecting it. I rationalized everything, telling myself this is just what it feels like to be really pregnant, I guess. Finally, when I couldn't even walk to the bathroom without dropping to all fours in the hallway and panting through a contraction, I realized I had to come to terms with the fact that I was actually going to have a baby. Imminently.

I'm just over 38 weeks pregnant now, and I've already started my maternity leave, so that leaves me all this time to do the following things: OBSESS and OVER-ANALYZE. And hey, guess what! I'm super good at both of those things already! Excellent. Seriously, though, at least once a day I am utterly convinced that I'm going into labor within the day. On the flip side, at least once a day I freak out about how this baby will go to college in my belly and Matt will have to help me put on my pants for the rest of our lives. What a lucky man.

Well, I hear all babies have to be born eventually.

My guilt over not working anymore is ebbing, though, because I'm pretty wickedly uncomfortable. That, and I absolutely reached my limit of what kinds of comments I could endure and still respond in a civilized manner. I grew resigned to the usual barrage: Are you sure you're not having twins? You look like you're ready to POP, you're HUGE! No way will you make it to your due date! What is your due date? No, your EXACT due date? You're definitely having a boy. You're definitely having a girl. You're huge. You look incredibly uncomfortable. You've dropped. J., you've had four kids, look at her -- hasn't she dropped?

But the last one I heard on my way out the door WINS.

On the day before Thanksgiving, I had to swing through the office to sign some paperwork on my way out. The worst offender, the one who always makes the most bizarre and inappropriate comments (and is also a woman I really don't know, which makes her comments even more bizarre and inappropriate), walked over to me and grimaced.

"You look like you're dilating," she said.

Blink.

Blink blink.

What?

"I mean, have you gone in and gotten your cervix checked?" she asked.

I was literally speechless for a moment, and then the tiny Shari in my head screamed at her, "How can I possibly LOOK like I'm DILATING?" Finally, I just said, "Uh, no, and I'm not planning to, ever, because I don't think that information is at all relevant." Seriously, there is only one number that matters, and when I get to that number, no one will need to tell me. (I probably should have followed that with, "And how is this at all an appropriate thing to ask someone you hardly know? In an office?")

She continued to gape at me, then said, "Well, have fun," in a tone of voice that suggested I was somehow either stupid or crazy. For what, though, I'm not sure -- for dilating without checking? For being pregnant at all?

I just -- I really don't even know. I look like I'm dilating?

I ran into one of my colleagues on my way to my car.

"L. told me I look like I'm dilating," I said. When my colleague managed to gain control of her hysterical laughter, she asked, "Where -- uh, where was she looking?"

This little encounter is perhaps all I need to think about when I question whether or not I should have stuck it out at school a little longer.