....just got further away. I went to the doctor yesterday morning. I was totally exhausted from being up until 2AM the night before, so I didn't go to the appointment with the highest of spirits. My doctor was running late, and I sat in the waiting room for about thirty minutes before being called back. My blood pressure is still on an even keel, which is encouraging. I stripped down and covered myself with a lovely paper blanket and waited for the doctor. When he finally came in he poked around with the doppler, then he checked my cervix, and did some more poking, and expressed his astonishment that there had been absolutely no changes at all with the exception that the baby was high, quite high, actually too high. Great. He wanted to do an ultrasound to check Little Guy's position, so I had to wait for the ultrasound room to be open, and then once in the ultrasound room I had to wait for my doctor to free up time to come in and do the ultrasound.
The first thing we saw was, to quote my doctor, a "big old baby head". Little Guy is in the correct position, head down and such, he's just high up. Spectacularly high up. Everything looks good, apparently, and my doctor feels comfortable letting me go past my due date with monitoring. My body is just not doing anything it needs to do or is supposed to do to prepare to go into labor. We spoke after the ultrasound, and he explained to me that he could induce me, he could make me have contractions (even at one point saying, "I could make that lamp have contractions", which amused me - I love sarcasm), I could labor and labor and labor endlessly and ultimately end up having a C-section when my body flatly refuses to do what it is supposed to do. I don't want to have a c-section, and I see his point. You can't hurry nature, even when nature shows no inclination of starting things up on its' own. Fine! I'll wait.
He also mentioned that he checked his calender and that he thought February 4th was the best date for induction, apparently fitting well into his schedule and allowing me time to possibly enter labor on my own. February 4th also happens to be my 30th birthday.
So here's where I'm at:
--I am not having a baby this week
--I will probably not have a baby next week
--I will probably have a baby on my birthday.
Sigh. You never know, I could go into labor on my own. Right - ha! Either way, as long as Little Guy gets here safely, that's all that matters.
I don't know why this is so hard. I went eight days past my due date with Jacelyn and didn't get this miserable until right before I had her. I think that is because I was scared of labor, so while I was uncomfortable, at least it was a known discomfort. I have a lot more going on now, too - a five-year old, work, girl scouts. I didn't do anything in the last two weeks or so but sleep, before Jacelyn was born. So things are different, and you know what? I will allow myself to wallow in my misery a little bit, occasionally, because I think I have earned it. I'm basically forty weeks pregnant, and still working, still taking my daughter to school, still cooking dinner and cleaning my house and getting around (albeit slowly). I'm actually lucky, if I think about it - there are people who have complications who can't do any of that and would probably love to. So, I feel like crap, but 1.) that's OK, and 2.) it could be worse. I can live with that. I really am very fortunate.
I am feeling paranoid and irritated with people. This morning, I was leaving Wal-Mart and a woman walking past gave me this look - the only way I can think of to describe it is a combination of disgust and dismay. I actually did a double-take, thinking that I had imagined the look, but no, she was still doing it, going so far as to actually turn around while walking to continue to look at me. Then, at work today, I stood up to help a customer and she actually said, "Oh my gosh, you are very pregnant, aren't you?". Nooooooo, really? Am I? I hadn't noticed. Good looking out, Captain Obvious.
My disposition has not improved. I can summon up patience with a few people close to me, but that's about it. Brian is driving me crazy - I'm not entirely certain he'll survive this pregnancy. Sunday, after I had spent the day working around the house, going grocery shopping with a five year old in tow, and then making sure he had dinner when he came home (late and without calling), the only thing he commented about was the fact that there was water on the kitchen floor and, horror of horrors, his sock got wet. And he didn't just say, "Oh, my sock is wet", he had to make a huge deal out of it - "Oh, geez, are you serious? Are you serious? My sock is wet, look at that, what is the deal in here, look at my sock, it is so wet, aww, man..." and so on. I chose to ignore that and him for most of the rest of the night, but I was pretty irritated. I try and keep my comments to a minimum, because my normal sarcasm is magnified by hormones and my comments can get pretty scathing and mean if I don't check myself.
That's all for now. I'll keep things updated, but the likelihood of having anything transpire to require said updating is slim. Sigh.
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WHAT is IT with men and wet socks?? They take it like it was a personal affront. They look at you like you just peed on their mother or something. Karl has said (and I quote) "ARGH! My sock is wet! There is NOTHING I hate more than wet socks!" Wow, I think if a wet sock is the worse thing you can think of, well, you are leading a pretty darned charmed life.
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