Two weeks ago we did a big shop, stockpiling food for after the birth. Then on Friday we did another one, as we had begun to eat into our supplies. Same thing with cleaning. The house was organized and together, ready for our new arrival. Now, after another afternoon of dusting, vacuuming, and straightening, it’s ready again. These are some of the small, dumb specifics contributing to our current pregnancy status: we’re tired of anticipating!
Nearly everyone we talk to has the same questions: how’s S feeling? Do you think it’s going to be soon? Are you ready? We’ve become weary of answering them. These inquiries are usually followed with the advice that we enjoy these last nights of solitude.
But the thing is we’re not alone anymore. S’s belly is all baby.
He’s hanging so low, every time we think he’s hit bottom we wake up to find he’s dropped even further. The midwife said his head is firmly between S’s pelvis, so far down that she could touch it during S’s last exam. His position is putting intense pressure on S’s pelvis, causing discomfort if she’s in the same position for too long, or pain when she is standing or walking—basically constant achiness.
It was so bad that whenever she rolled over in bed on Saturday night, she groaned. This of course roused me, and I would bring myself fully awake, thinking it was go time. But S would just find a new position, then mumble to herself and drift back asleep, leaving me keyed up and awake. I woke up on Sunday just as exhausted as she was (though certainly not as achy). Welcome to parenting.
Ok, so sure, we don’t have to clean up gloppy poop or worry about babysitting. Which meant that, S’s aches and our general sleepiness aside, we had a nice weekend. After attending my thesis reading on Friday we stayed out late socializing (picture S parked on a couch and me ferrying cranberry mocktails and snacks back and forth while I got steadily sloshed on highballs). And we went for several long, slow jaunts in the city to meet a friend for ice cream and run errands in Chinatown. We were hoping to walk the baby out of her.
Still, we hate the unknowns hanging over our head. From the little things—do we have to plan dinner for tomorrow, or will we be in the hospital? Can I get drunk tonight, or will S go into labor? To the big—how long will the labor last? How much pain will S experience? What’s our son going to be like? Similar to dried up bits of cuticle, we can’t help ourselves from playing with these questions even when we know we shouldn’t.
Last night I called to the baby by his name, which only the two of us know and which we rarely address him by. I pressed my mouth against S’s stomach and told him he should come out now. “We’re ready for you,” I said.
He moved against me, responding to the sound of my voice, but as of Monday morning, we’re still waiting.
It's almost obscene...