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.