The following, as likely expected, is the "I'm going to be pregnant forever" blog post.
I'm going to be pregnant forever.
My child will attend kindergarten through senior year of college while still in my womb. His wedding will take place in my uterus, and his partner will move in via my vagina. No cats allowed.
Today is the fifth day in my thirty-ninth week of pregnancy and I've decided this condition ... this miraculous condition ... is someone's idea of a huge joke that goes on for way too long.
I'm waiting for that spurt of energy, that nesting thing to kick in. Nothing on the horizon thus far. Only a fatigue that has wormed its way into each bone. My fingers are tired. My eyelids feel like they weigh five pounds each.
Night-time peeing has reached unprecedented levels. I pee every hour. Every. Hour. Until I can't muster the energy to get up and pee and then I just lie there, exhausted, needing to pee.
I've kept my eye out for signs of labor, but so far there's just been some mild cramping.
I know, logically, that this child will be here in -- at most -- a little over a week. But I don't think he's gotten the memo.
My friend from the birthing class had her baby, after much drama. Did I mention she'd elected to induce at 39 weeks?
You have three guesses how that ended up.
Yes, a c-section.
The whole lead-up sounded terrible. Cervidil to ripen the cervix, 13 hours of pitocin, and many hours of painful contractions only to end up dilated 2 centimeters. They were given the choice to go home and wait for labor to start naturally, or have a c-section. They chose the surgery, which is what I'd suspected she wanted all along. It didn't go excellently -- lots of bleeding due to overstimulation of the uterus and lots of vomiting afterward.
But they have their kid.
I'm trying all the tricks to induce labor naturally, but babies just arrive when they're ready, don't they? Because my life operates strictly based on Murphy's Law, this probably means he's going to arrive on Thanksgiving. As soon as I pour gravy on my mashed potatoes, my water will probably break.
I mean, I am the same person whose period has started on Christmas day every year for the last several years, so this seems only logical.
And that's fine.