As in “pregnant” and “not yet delivered”.
It’s fine. Really. This stage - what am I in, the 10th month, 5th trimester or something like that - this stage of the pregnancy is a piece of cake.
So, yes, I am still with child and the child is on the inside. He’s comfy. Occasionally, he wakes up at about 11PM and kicks the crap out of me.
Kicks the crap out of me…see that makes me laugh, because I’ve been taking Colace quite regularly now and I must have super anti-Colace powers that I never knew about. Lucky, lucky me. Yup. That’s my superhero name: Pooless Girl! Fighting the never-ending battle against the high cost of toilet paper and my evil arch-enemy, The Prune! Defender of sluggish bowels and protector of those innocent victims forced into attending community events that provide only one Porta Potty for every 600 people.
My husband hates potty talk.
I don’t talk this way at home, really. I’m all, “Oh, honey, close the door to the water closet and let’s maintain the mystery, shall we?” Before we had kids, my husband and I never even knew that each other used the bathroom at all other than for adjusting make-up and drying damp socks. Now, my daughters report back to me: “I walked in the bathroom and Daddy stands-up when he pees. That‘s no fair.”
LA-LA-LA-LA-LA! I’M NOT LISTENING!
I talk a lot about alimentary goings-on on this blog, don’t I?
I just don’t have any other outlet.
So to speak.
But let’s face it, things are going to get real earthy around here real fast. Anyone who has ever handled a newborn - or heck, any age child - knows that bodily-function talk just comes with the territory. Even when the territory only weighs 7lbs but can projectile vomit the contents of a 15-minute feeding across the room and into the fish tank. Seconda did something like this when she was about a week old. I nursed her. Burped her. And then she got this tiny, adorably worried look on her face, opened her cupid’s bow mouth and, without any other warning, ejected whole lot of everything with remarkable speed. I mean, a very surprising amount of partially digested breastmillk - like the amount you would expect from a young goat, not a newborn human infant - an enormous geyser of milk came back up and out but…
Where’d it go?
She was dry. My shirt was dry.
It was amazing. As if all that regurgitated stuff had possibly just burned-up on its exit from the Earth’s atmosphere.
I looked. Nothing on the sofa. Nothing on the cat.
And then I looked at the wall about 6 feet away and there it was, dripping down Jackson Pollock-like. Approximately four gallons of stomach contents. (I know, she only drank about 4 ounces, but it gained mass as it attained velocity.)
I looked at Seconda again.
She seemed as surprised as I was.
“Wow” I told her. “That was pretty…fantastic.”
And she’s been fantastic every since.
I am still pregnant and this child is breech. That would mean that instead of his head upside-down in my crotch with his feet kicking my ribs, he has his head in my lungs and is kneeing my intestines.
Which also means that, unless he flips into the locked-and-loaded position, I get to experience the miracle and empowerment of birth along with the thrill and excited anticipation of major abdominal surgery. And yes, I’ve been trying all the flippy-over tricks: reclining upside-down on an ironing board, rocking back and forth on my hands and knees, putting a head-set on my crotch and playing “Get Down Tonight” in an attempt to draw him toward the tantalizing beat of K.C. and The Sunshine Band.
The kid won’t budge.
My OB suggested an external cephalic version - a procedure in which they would try to manually turn the baby from the outside, and which sounded only slightly less uncomfortable than trying to manually rotate my own head 360 degrees - but he also talked about the risks and the fact that final success rate could be as low as 50%. Which means that after spinning my head and my baby, there was a good chance he’d pop back up again anyway.
And I’m guessing that this child would flip back upright because no matter how much he liked the K.C. playing near my cervix, it has to be nothing compared to the enchanting draw of my vocals as I sing along to the newest Christina Aguilera song while driving in my minivan. My pipes are rockin‘, seriously.
But I gotta be honest, here. At this point, if someone told me that the baby would be delivered today, but through my ear, I’d pull back my hair and say, “Which one?”
I'm so very ready.
Ready to meet this newest bundle of joy, oh sure.
But equally ready to no longer be balancing a whole lot of uterus on top of my bladder.
I can’t tie my shoes. I can’t bend over. The splaying-knee thing you know about. I can’t run after my kids to catch them by the scruff of the neck and drag them back to the kitchen to finish cleaning-up the Floam explosion.
I’m very, very hungry, but I can only stomach ice cream and watermelon -which doesn’t sound too, too bad as diets go, until I tell you that last week alone, I ate three entire watermelons by myself.
And I could eat another one right now.
The entire thing.
I’m not proud.
And even though watermelon contains something like 2 calories per melon, my maternity clothes no longer fit me. Refuse to fit me. Just obstinately refuse to do what they were designed to do.
Oh sure, the common wisdom is to buy maternity clothes in the size you normally wear and that these clothes are designed and altered in some ratio or proportion to fit the parts of you that are still size small, but will also accommodate those parts of you that are size “Whoa.” And honestly, in the mid-trimester, these clothes usually did fit fairly well. My size small maternity jeans gave enough give across my belly and hips, but were slim and fetching through the legs and flared oh-so-stylishly across the tops of my ankle boots.
However, once I hit month seven, even my few pair of medium pants were pulling at the seams.
And now at month 10, my two pair of size large shorts - the ones I almost declined taking from a friend of mine - even those two pair of shorts are groaning like the steel hull of the Titanic on the way down.
My wardrobe currently consists of one very stretchy skirt, flip-flops, a pair of my husband’s boxer shorts, and a table cloth with a hole cut in the middle. But it’s cute, very cute. If nine months ago you would have told me, “You know, you should really add a flannel-backed vinyl PowerPuff Girls table cloth to your wardrobe” I would have blushed, “Naaaawwwww. Go on with ya! Now I know you‘re teasing.”
But, you just never know.
So, anyway…that’s where it all stands right now.
C- section to be scheduled for sometime during the week of July 31 - August 4, upon which time and afterwards, I’m going to be a bit preoccupied and begging for help (and pain killers) from all sides.
You have two weeks to prepare your cyber-meals.
Upside-down cake and prune casserole should do nicely.