Another Still Pregnant! post

This is not a Birth Announcement. This is not even a Labor Announcement. I should just go ahead and get that out of the way, because every time I talk on the phone or send an e-mail these days the first thing I have to say is I AM NOT IN LABOR! And then I become decidedly less interesting.

Once I bypassed the crucial 37-week mark and realized I probably wouldn't be giving birth immediately, I actually wanted to stay pregnant until at least today, more than two whole weeks past the 37-week mark, because today was supposed to be Suzannah's first Christmas program at church and I really, really wanted to see her in it. The good news is that as far as I can tell, I'm not in labor yet. The bad news is that Suzannah came down with a cold late last week, and while she seems to feel a bit better than she did two days ago, she has almost completely lost her voice. She sounds, I think, a lot worse than she feels, but we decided to keep her home. She's touchy and croaky, and while I would love to see my little girl up there with all the other kids, I decided it wasn't fair to drag her out when she wasn't feeling great just for my sake. And anyway, she's three; she's not really the glue that holds the program together. There will be other Christmas programs, right?

Still, I'm in a bit of a funk over this, and I'm second-guessing our decision as well, since our daughter is not resting -- she's being an absolute pill this morning. I just love that stage where kids are too sick to go out but they're not sick enough to snuggle on the couch with movies or books; they're stir-crazy and prone to fits of whining. Fun times. Right now Matt is concocting some kind of delicious French toast brunch creation with cream cheese and apple slices, and I suppose that will help me cope.

So anyway, 39+ weeks pregnant is a lot different than 36 or 37 weeks pregnant. I know I felt uncomfortable a couple of weeks ago, but was it really just a few days after Thanksgiving that I could waddle up the street in Seattle and browse through Elliott Bay Book Company? And go to dinner afterward? I haven't left my house since Thursday, and I can hardly waddle between the couch and the bathroom. I have contractions all the time, but they have yet to settle into a pattern or otherwise do anything.

I never got to this point when I was pregnant with Suzannah, which makes sense since she was nearly a month early. I mean, I was uncomfortable. Of course. That's what happens before you go into labor. But I taught three junior classes and two sophomore classes until the day before I went into active labor. I cleaned my house, I did laundry, I drove my dog to the vet, and when I was done with all that I reorganized all our bookshelves, learned how to knit, and drafted my own plan for healthcare reform. (Just kidding. I totally can't knit.)

Now, though, my brain has turned to mush. Two weeks ago, I read South of Broad and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo in rapid succession, but I've been unable to read more than a hundred pages of The Plague of Doves in a week -- and I love Louise Erdrich. I have all these beginnings of journal entries that just sort of fizzle out. I can hardly even finish an episode of Gilmore Girls, and it's not like that takes a great deal of concentration.

It doesn't exactly help to tell myself that my brain is probably going to be pretty mushy for quite some time.

But based on a few gory details I won't write about here (much to my mother's disappointment, I'm sure), I don't think it will be long. And for the most part, I'm okay with that, because I think babies know better than we do when their birthdays should be. I think it must be getting crowded in there and life might be nicer on the outside, but then again, if Baby is comfortable and healthy and wants to just chill out for awhile longer, that's okay with me.

HAVE YOU HAD THAT BABY YET?





(Thanks to Anne for the link.)

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.