Well, it’s been a while. I hope none of you were worried. The fact is, I didn’t have much to add that was new and I didn’t want to turn my blog into a COMPLAIN DRAIN.
I am now, officially, in the “any day now” stage. They guestimate a due date based on the date of your last period and adjust it if necessary when you get your first ultrasound based on the size of the fetus. But really, the due date is just the middle of a 4 week time period where baby can just decide it’s ready and only 5% of births happen on their due date (like my sister > don’t you feel special?).
I get asked a lot if I’m done. Which is a silly question, to be honest. Obviously I’m not done because I still have a person in me. Am I done wanting to be pregnant? Well, yeah. But that’s been true since August. I never wanted to be pregnant. I wanted to have a baby. You don’t want to go to culinary school, but you do because you want to be a chef. You don’t want to take a driver’s test, but you do because you want your license. Make sense? Am I ready to be done? Well, yes. HOWEVER, I am not done.
This has to do with muscle failure. When I first joined the Army, I could almost do 5 push-ups. On my first PT test, I did 13, the minimum to pass. On the second PT test, they made it abundantly clear that the goal was to do better than last time, so I managed 14 push-ups. I still got smoked because one rep is not exactly improvement. Before my last PT test, my DS explained the mentality behind muscle failure. If you go in with a number in your head, there is little chance you will exceed that number. Your brain will tell your body to quit once it hits that number and it will. So for my last PT test, instead of thinking that I only needed 13 or only needed to do better than 13, I went in thinking the number 42 as that is the maximum goal for 18 yo females. I did 27. No, I didn’t hit my goal number, but I nearly doubled what I had done just a month before without changing my exercise regimen at all. Thereafter, I had a sequence in my head (20, 10, 5, 5, 2) and the number 42 in big bold type when I got down on that mat. And it worked.
So right now I have a date in my head. It’s my due date, but with sort of a fuzzy caveat that any day the week after is fine. Because I don’t want my brain to tell me I’m at muscle failure just because I’ve hit a randomly chosen goal. Muscle failure at this point would be VERY BAD. It would mean giving up on caring about what I eat or whether or not I get anything done during the day. It would mean staying in bed all day and getting depressed and anxious and frustrated. These are not things I want to do. They are added stressors on a body and mind already pretty stressed.
Therefore, I am continuing to put in my 12 hrs a week at my job. It’s not a hard job and it gets me out of the house. And I’m still going to most of my yarn groups (3 times a week) and I am planning lessons with students through next week. I am tired, yes, and I am ambling much slower these days because everything is uncomfortable and I get winded if I forget that my normal walking pace was normal 40 lbs ago. I am also wearing very sexy compression socks on a daily basis to keep my toes from going all piggy (I’ve started avoiding retirement communities so I don’t get catcalled). I almost got stuck behind the washing machine door this morning and rolling off the couch makes me feel more and more like a beached whale every day. None of my rings fit. My ankles and wrists are stiff and sore. And I am peeing EVEN MORE FREQUENTLY, if you can believe it, since Platypus has started moving south. On the plus side, this means my rib discomfort, while still apt to flair up, isn’t a constant nagging irritation and I’ve even been able to stand lying on my side for short intervals!
But I am not done. I won’t be done until he is because I simply can’t allow my brain to tell my body to give up. And I really hope he sticks to his due date because St. Patty’s Day is an awesome birthday.
If you’re wondering about that whole “nesting” thing that’s supposed to be happening, I get about 30 min of hyper-productiveness followed by 2 hrs of naptime. And my nesting is not the “scrub everything to within an inch of its life” kind. Mine is checking and rechecking packing lists, reading all the packets and guidelines I got from my Prenatal Group Classes, organizing boxes of baby clothes, sending out thank you cards, and (last weekend) making 2 months worth of crockpot freezer meals in an afternoon. Otherwise, I’m just restless, which is another reason to keep working. Sitting at home for days at a time makes me edgy and, surprisingly, crochet isn’t cutting it for keeping me chill.
Notes on things not to say to pregnant women (most of these you probably know):
Wow, you look about done! (What the eff is that supposed to mean? My belly button is still an innie, thank you very much.)
Are you having twins? (Even if you are joking, I will stab you in the neck.)
Here’s a horrible story I heard from a friend of mine about her delivery. (I have heard all the horror stories. I requested all the stories because I wanted to know what I was getting into. You, stranger, are not going to shock me or scare me or whatever. Frankly, I’m bored because this isn’t even in the top ten of awful I’ve heard. I will take firsthand accounts, though. All info is useful, even if it’s just confirming that I’m better off already.)
Should you be eating/drinking that? (I haven’t actually heard this one. Which is also why I’m not in prison for murder right now.)
Are you ready? (No. Is anyone?)
Pretty much the best policy is to tell me I’m beautiful and give me cookies. Oh, and know that pregnancy rage is a real beast which can attack at any time. I have no power over this.
If you are anywhere near a pregnant woman right now, tell her she’s beautiful and give her a box of GS cookies. I guarantee that she needs it.