My sister left for a hiking trip in Yosemite a week ago. Knowing she’d be gone all week, she wished me luck. I teased that I could still be pregnant when she got back, but you could tell in our giggles that neither of us believed that to be true. Low and behold, here I am. Forty one weeks pregnant. That’s ten months and one week for those keeping a score card. And honestly, it feels like I could be pregnant indefinitely. I try my best to cling on any little change or cramp and am constantly re-evaluating the strength of my contractions (that I’ve had for months, mind you) but nothing seems to pan out. I go to the bathroom with the same excitement I had when I was 15, eagerly awaiting Aunt Flow to come visit (Yes, I was a late bloomer). My trust in my body to go into this thing called labor on it’s own is wavering.
I told my midwife that it feels like I have the laughing-weeping syndrome. As a side note, when I just googled “laughing-weeping syndrome”, wikipedia also co-named the disorder emotional incontinence which made me giggle, giving way to the laughing aspect of this syndrome I’ve diagnosed myself with. I’m being facetious, but in all seriousness, I’ve been a mood-swinging maniac. Mostly on the weeping end of the spectrum.
It can’t be that much longer, right? This baby will come out, right?
On Saturday we went to the Huntington Library in Pasadena to listen to some live music and have a picnic. After asking about my due date, one woman confessed she was “surprised” I was out and about. Maybe she thought I belonged in the hole I’ve been so eager to hide in. What I wanted to say was, “You know, babies don’t just fall out of the vagina. If I didn’t feel good, I wouldn’t be here”. Pregnancy sensitivity.
I stopped at the vintage market down the street from our house yesterday. There’s a point you get to in pregnancy where you just don’t want to hear people’s opinions anymore. Am I wrong? Everyone seems to be compelled to comment on your belly, guess the sex, guess how far along, yadda yadda yadda. It’s gotten draining to admit my due date was last week. I thought I had reached all I could handle until a rough-around-the-edges man came up to me and said, “WOAH! You are preg-nant”. Thanks for noticing, asshole, is what I felt like saying. But I said something better instead, I said, “I’m not sure whether to say ‘Thank You’ or “F&#% You’, frankly”. He quickly tried to redeem himself, feeding me the compliment that I’m “all belly”. Not but 20 minutes later another older man yelled across his booth, “twins?”. I couldn’t even muster anything up to say to him. I really just wanted to smack him clear across his wrinkly face. Pregnancy sensitivity. I’m telling you, it’s a real disorder. I got in my car and left after buying a few really cool things (will share soon) and confessed my new found hatred for the general public to Willy.
So yes, I’m still pregnant. I’ll be following up with my backup OB this week, which is something I clearly wanted to avoid. This path feels all too familiar. And so the anxiety builds…
On the bright side, my midwives are not at all concerned and are very trusting in my body’s ability to get their on it’s own. Van and I are both healthy thus far, so I’m trying my best to share in the same trust.