I sort of expected there to be a baby by now—even though that's a ridiculous idea. Just because she's full term doesn't mean she's fully ready. And the full moon on Thursday didn't pull her out (as I secretly hoped it would).
When Anne checked me recently, my cervix was a teensy bit dilated and softening, which is different from soft. The baby was at -3 station, a.k.a. still high up, a.k.a. labor is not imminent. I had been feeling very pro-pregnancy, but the exam took the wind out of my sails. Nothing like being told it could be several weeks yet to make me completely over it.
Westley is over it too. He asks every day if the baby will be born today, and every day I tell him, "We'll see." This is not an answer he likes, and he's started acting out more. I don't think he makes the connection, but I certainly do. Even as he's driving me crazy, I have so much empathy for him. From his perspective, all of the adults have lost their minds.
The worst part is that I don't know what to do with myself any more. I cleared the huge mental hurdle of safe-home-birth at thirty-seven weeks...and made it all the way to thirty-eight weeks. Now it's on to thirty-nine, and thirty-ten, and thirty-eleven, and I am going to be pregnant forEVER, you guys!
I'd like to keep really active and busy, but my energy is basically gone by 2:00 PM every day. I get out of bed (tired), do my morning routine, hang out or run errands with Westley, prepare and eat lunch, and then I just want to nap. For the entire rest of the day. It's embarrassing—and I never actually do nap from 2:00 on out, but more than once this week I've fallen asleep without intending to.
Sciatica has arrived, and all the mountain posing in the world can't help me now. My challenge to myself is to try not to walk like it hurts (even though it does). And I'm trying to get out of the habit of saying "ouch" at every turn and twinge. (When you're undeniably pregnant and say "ouch," or even just groan a little bit, people notice and make concerned faces at you.) I figure this is character-building and will serve me well in labor. When I finally get there. Around week thirty-twenty or so.
We finally got some of the heat that everyone else in the country has been dealing with. It's never that hot in Seattle. When the temperatures do creep up, there are suddenly drunk, sunburned people everywhere. I've been missing the option of an alcoholic beverage every now and then, but I do not understand how anyone drinks booze when it's hot out. The only thing that seems even remotely appealing to me is water, the colder the better.
In addition to consuming ice water and ice pops and ice cream (which I still can't get enough of—Rob says the thing he's going to miss most about this pregnancy is my sweet tooth), we're all hanging out in swimwear. Some of us more so than others.
Yeah, I so don't care any more. During non-pregnant months, I'm pretty modest. But if you can't walk around mostly naked when you're at the end of your pregnancy and it's uncharacteristically hot outside and be totally okay with it, when can you?