Saturday, January 13, 2018

And now.... we wait

I cannot believe I am going to write the following words:  I am thirty-nine weeks pregnant.

Yesterday I said farethewell to my office.  My work-husband and friends took me out for lunch and I ate a ridiculous amount of spicy Ethiopian food (PSA - go for mild, the heartburn isn't worth the miniscule chance that you can jump-start labor).  I left all of my work in his capabale hands, and of course asked that he call me as much as possible to keep me in the loop of gossip and brainstorming for the next six months* because OCD.

I see Dr. W on monday, where we will learn whether my cervix of steel (can you believe it?) has budged.  If not, it's a scheduled induction in my future, likely a foley balloon.  You know why I love my doctor?  Because when I asked her for an explanation of the foley balloon, her exact words were "Yeah, it's fucking barbaric."  But waiting for Nutmeg after I hit forty weeks (friday) isn't an option, so barbaric obstetrical tools it may be.  As I write this I have the feeling that nothing is progressing.  Pretty much no braxton hicks going on here.  Viking and I took a walk today while Niblet was taking her ballet classes, and I plan on attempting a sort of modified hike tomorrow.  (And yes, we are attempting to sex this baby out of me and he is a fucking champ for a 47 year old). 

On other fronts, another co-worker just e-introduced me to - check this out - another 43 year old pregnant lady due at the end of January who lives maybe 15 minutes away, if that.  She's a musician and not from this country, and I just emailed her and was all "PLEASE please please be my friend cool musician lady." I know from my go-around with Niblet and PPD and birthing in the cold, dark, dead of winter that the isolation is the worst.  I've learned from those experiences and know that the more coffee dates I can set up after those first few weeks at home, the better I will fare.

So we wait.

* Yes, my leave is six months long.  There will be an essay on this topic, and what an insane stroke of luck I have working for such a generous employer.  My readers outside the US have no idea, I know.


  1. May your cervix budge without crazy interventions and may your studly 47 year old sex that baby out of you!

    I hope the bomb cyclone is over and your air bag is not gonna explode. Birth that baby!! So excited for you! PPD and SAD must suck ass in this arctic crap but I wish you happy hormones, abundant milk (if you are gonna boob her), and a powerful uterus! Hugs!!

  2. Hey sexy mama, you still knocked up? You have cute Nutmeg in your arms yet? Been thinking about you. Hope all is well!