Because of my ADVANCED MATERNAL AGE, I have had weekly ultrasound images of the fine fellow, and in each one he seemed increasingly more comfortable, sucking his thumb and looking pleased as punch to be where he is, and oh excuse me, he’d like to stay longer for the ultrasound photo but he has some ribs to kick and a bladder to headbutt.
All this is to say that I no longer have confidence that he will enter this world in a timely fashion, and time is ticking for him to enter it punctually by the due date. Luckily for me, there is such a thing called inducement, and we just might be resorting to that.
People with children tell us to enjoy this time by ourselves, rug-ratless, and we are trying to, although it is hard to enjoy anything when one moves like a hippo in stilettos, and it is now uncomfortable for me to sit and lie down. (Which just seems wrong! Sitting should always be comfy, as should a full recline.) And then of course although Sean hasn’t joined me in hippo-dom, he has to listen to me moan about it.
So there we are. I will be happy to meet our guy face to face, instead of head to bladder, and – call me a curmudgeon – will also be glad to no longer have my pregnancy be an invitation for strangers to talk to me on the street. And call me mom. On the flip side, I do admit to enjoying the fact that on the crowded train ride home, someone will usually give me a seat (although those someones are almost always young women. Chivalry is dead).
Meanwhile, Posy is enjoying sleeping in the baby’s room, despite its pet gate, Plum can’t resist sharpening his claws on all of Sean’s furniture, especially the couches, and Dorothy is still OCD with the yard, even though she comes in with lizard legs—all wall to wall bumps from feisty mosquitoes.