Holding out

One more week and I’ll be officially classified “full term.” I’m hoping Cletus stays put for at least seven more days. However, after that, I would be totally fine with having a January baby. Really, whenever Cletus decides to voluntarily vacate this uterus is A-OK with me. I keep reminding myself that I could go to 42 weeks and it would be totally normal, but that is just too discouraging to seriously contemplate right now. I feel a little like I’m holding my breath to get to 37 weeks, so figuring in that many extra days beyond my due date is too overwhelming. But Darien has two business trips over the next five days, so this baby can’t come early. As soon as he gets back next week, I’ll be able to relax. We have our birth kit, clothes, diapers ordered, crib assembled, and birth team on alert. This is happening!

The bloating seems to have calmed down a bit. I have taken to laying down more during the day, and that seems to help. I have been having more contractions, but they continue to be sporadic and not at all painful. I still feel lots of movement, and the baby definitely feels like it’s getting bigger. As I attempt to be patient, I keep thinking about how all my questions will soon be answered: sex, weight, length, birth day, birth time, how long labor will take. In the meantime, I am mentally planning my post-birth feast, which must include hard salami. Oh, how I will relish having my bladder back! And my stomach shall accommodate normal sized meals again! I know I know I am making deals with the devil by wishing to trade these things for the precious sleep that everyone insists I won’t get ever again. But I am so OK with that.

Seriously, though, my maternity clothes are getting tight. I thought it would be more miserable to be super pregnant in the summer because of the heat, but now I’m thinking if it were summer, I could wear loose, flowing skirts and flip-flops. Winter demands pants and proper shoes, neither of which fits very well any more. Even my shirts are starting to look too short to obscure the belly panels on my jeans. I think the whole concept of losing modesty in labor is really just facing the fact that there are no clothes that fit you anymore. Who wears clothes when they’re this pregnant unless they have to?

It occurred to me the other day that we are not meant to do this alone. I can’t imagine being pregnant by myself. It’s not that I can’t walk the dogs, or do the laundry, or make a living (or tie my shoes!). It’s that it’s so much easier if my husband does those things for me. Thank god I don’t have to face the stairs of our third-floor walk-up more than absolutely necessary. While I feel conflicted about wanting to be taken care of and being independent and self-sufficient and all that good feminist stuff, at the end of the day, pregnancy is hard on the body, and it’s exhausting. I’m glad I don’t have to do everything myself. I gladly accept the help that my husband offers. I may worry endlessly about our finances, but I am so lucky to be able to work from home if I want, or take a nap in the middle of the day if I need to. I will take every seat on the train that is offered. My husband can carry all my bags. I will take every extra day at home after the birth that I can get away with and still keep our business running. A baby changes everything, but shouldn’t it?

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