Two weeks, you say, until Dubya makes her debut? Well, give or take.
The imprecise nature of due dates has been drilled into me throughout the years. I’ve seen friends go through the frustration of going past their date; I’ve seen friends go much earlier than they expected; I’ve seen friends go right on time. Where, or where, will I end up?
Truth be told, I don’t really care.
My attitude is this: Dubya needs her time to develop. If that means going a week past my due date, that’s fine. I also need time to get things wrapped up, well, everywhere. So if she wants to mosey on down instead of racing to the finish line, I’m cool with it, discomfort and all. If she feels the need to come sooner, okay, we’ll deal. Either way, she’s happening (and she’s large and in charge).
That said, after today’s appointment, I do know this: I’ve had no progression or dilation and Dubya is most definitely not engaged. It’s starting to feel as if someone’s punched me repeatedly in the pelvis, for sure, but she’s snuggled in there. My OB told me he was pretty sure I’d hit 40 weeks.
Dubya also passed her biophysical profile with flying colors. I was worried about her position (because that’s the one thing she’s ever given me a lot of worry over), but she’s snugly head down. However, as I noted to the ultrasound tech, she does not seem to be a morning person in the least. We had to wait for her to move a bit and do her practice breathing. She’s pretty quiet during the mornings unless I drink juice. At night, after dinner, she’s doing the hokey pokey in there. Right around 10pm, when I tend to get to bed, she’s punching and kicking the hell out of me no matter what side I’m on (sorry, kid; can’t be on my back lest I deprive us both of oxygen). But mornings? She’s all, “No, thank you.”
Physically, besides the punched-pelvic feeling, I’m doing well. I’ve started taking the bus home in the evenings, but am still walking to work in the mornings. I try to get to the gym, but some days, just running around doing chores exhausts me. As time has become compressed, I’ve stopped with the prenatal yoga, which is unfortunate – I love it, but I don’t have 1.5 hours to spare on weekends anymore. I feel strong, though.
Emotionally, I do have my moments. The beginning of the week is the hardest, when work looms ahead and my breath catches as I wonder how I’ll get it all done. The simple truth is this: I won’t. I accept that by mid-morning on Mondays, but I get teary beforehand. I’m also somewhat irritable – my family has been annoying the hell out of me (another post) for sundry reasons (one of which is this: my mom’s impatience and anxiety are making me feel like she’s the pregnant one and I hate being asked to calm her down). The husband says I’m managing it all as well I can, but I sometimes wish I could watch the goings-on with a more detached amusement.
So, a fortnight to go. My head’s on pretty straight, I’d say, and I’m doing as best I can with everything. My baby’s trucking along. The husband is very excited and anxious to meet her.
And so we wait.