Monday, February 21, 2011

Really? You Think I'm Going to Have Time for That?

I am days away from my due date, which causes people to say things like the following to my husband and me:

"Oh my gosh, you have to call me as soon as you go into labor!"

"Call me as soon as he's born!  I can't wait to meet him!"

Just for Ss&Gs (sh*ts and giggles), let's examine a list of things I may or may not be doing after I go into labor or after my son is born:

When I'm In Labor:

  • Call Michael

  • Freak out that I'm actually in labor

  • Feed the dog because we're about to leave

  • Find the hospital bag

  • Get my Kiehl's face wash from the bathroom because I'm not going to use hospital soap

  • Remember that I'll probably want to brush my teeth too, so also grab my toothbrush

  • Freak out while Michael is on his way to pick me up

  • Try to pick up anything in the house that I don't want to come home to

  • Yell at Michael for taking too long to get home to get me

  • Yell at Michael for his crappy driving in my car

  • Tell Michael that the next time I'm in the car with him, we'll have a baby, and he better not drive like that

  • Yell at Michael for taking a business call during such an important time in our lives

  • Check in at the hospital

  • Get pissed because I forgot my insurance card

  • Get pissed that I have to put on a hospital gown

  • Get pissed that I got a small suite instead of a big nice one

  • Get pissed because it hurts, and Michael won't be nice to me

  • Get pissed because my hypoglycemic husband needs to eat, and he plans to eat in front of me

  • Hate my nurse and make Michael ask for a different one

  • Well... you see how this is going...

After Atticus is born:

  • Cry because I just had a BABY.  Oh my gosh, do you know how long we waited for a baby?

  • Cry because he might be ugly, and for all of this throwing up, God should let me have a cute baby.

  • Cry because I shat in front of my hot doctor

  • Lie there getting my tear and/or episiotomy stitched up

  • Ask the nurses when I'll be able to feel my legs again

  • Complain because I'm hungry

  • Yell at a nurse because she puts a bottle/pacifier/something else other than my boob in my baby's mouth

  • Freak out that my boob is in my baby's mouth

  • Cry because my baby's head is shaped funny, and I'm afraid people will think he's ugly

  • Waddle to the bathroom

  • Cry because it hurts to pee

  • Cry because it hurts to poop

  • Yell at Michael for something

  • Change out of the nasty hospital gown

  • Look at my baby and think he's the most beautiful baby in the world

  • Tell Michael that he can't hold him yet because it's still my turn

  • Call the LC and ask her to look at my boobs to see if I'm doing it correctly

  • Tell Michael to stop looking at my boobs like that

  • Ask the nurses for some nachos and cheese

  • Etc.

So, I'm going to be busy.  We're going to be busy.  All three of us.  My new family.  My husband, my son, and myself.  We.  Us.

Not you.

Yes, we do plan on making three phone calls after Atticus is born.  We'll call my parents, Michael's mom, and Michael's dad.  We do both own those high-tech devices called iPhones, and we do have access to Facebook.  We'll post an announcement there a few hours after his birth, and a picture will follow after the impatient grandmothers have a chance to meet him.

Don't misunderstand me.  We're very appreciative of all the support and well-wishes from our family and friends, but this isn't about our family and friends.  We have waited years for a child.  I think we've earned the right to keep his first few hours on this planet to ourselves.   Everyone else can wait for as long as we want them to.

This is our turn.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

He's never coming out

I now go to the doctor weekly for checkups.

I pee in a cup.  It's kind of yellow.  I get embarrassed handing it to the nurse.  I consider the fact that I should have had something to drink this morning instead of dying of thirst to keep the number on the scale lower.  Stupid vanity.

I weigh.  The scale tells me I'm fatter than I'd like to be.  I get depressed.

I'm told to take off my pants.   My doctor is hot, but it's not like that.  Nothing to be depressed about there.  I have a husband.

The doctor listens to the baby's heartbeat, measures my belly, and gets the nurse so he can enter my private territory.  He then sticks his entire fist up my girly bits to try and find my tonsils.  My eyes water, and my upper lip sweats.  The doctor apologizes for the pain and specifically mentions my sweaty lip.  I feel like a pansy for thinking that if the exam hurts, I'm going to be terrible at that whole labor and delivery thing.

The doctor opens my chart and writes "Closed, thick, and high" for the fourth week in a row.  Dammit.  Come back in a week. Depression #2.

I call my husband, who I begged not to come because I didn't want him to look at the scale told to go to work instead of coming to what I assumed would be another uneventful appointment.  He is expecting my call and answers in a very excited tone.  "Well?" "Nothing." "Oh.  Well.  Okay.  That's okay.  Really?  Nothing?" "Nothing." "Okay." Depression #3.

I'm fat, my cervix is still closed for business, and my husband is disappointed in my lack of progress.  Freaking great.

This kid is never going to come out.