This is me standing in front of Hamish's closet, which I cleaned out and organized last weekend. It remains the only thing I have done towards preparing the nursery, unless you count buying a rug for 65% off during a Memorial Day sale. Yeah, you do.
This morning I went to see my doctor for a routine visit, and in the middle of chatting about something or other, she said "well, now that you're 32 weeks pregnant, we can--"
"Wait," I said. "32 weeks? No, I'm still only 31 weeks."
"Hmm," she said, looking down at my chart. "Nope. You're 32 weeks, 1 day. Due date of July 24th."
"No, due date of July 27th," I countered. "It's always been July 27th."
"Ooh, and here," she said, still scanning my chart. "It says July 21st!"
"Oh my god," I said slowly, the color draining from my face. "So I actually have six fewer days than I thought?"
Once we'd figured out that my due date had been changed—unbeknownst to either of us—after my 19-week ultrasound and then again when the practice switched their electronic medical records, I started to feel a little calmer, particularly since my doctor said she actually wanted to keep it as the original July 27th. The relief was short-lived, however, when she measured the baby and found he was measuring ahead. Like, a whole week and two days ahead. Like, the size of a baby who is 33 weeks.
"Well," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Either he will be coming a little earlier than we expected or he's just going to be a really big guy."
Neither option, I have to admit, filled me with particular joy. One of them made me think shit! and the other one made me think OUCH.
Anyway, now that I've hit 31 weeks—I think? 32? 33? SHOULD I EVEN COUNT ANYMORE—two distinct things have happened. First, I have graduated from seeing the doctor every four weeks to seeing her every two, which seems to signify that things are heading into "whoaaaaaa, here it comes!" territory—totally technical term—and second, I am now grunting when I get up from a reclining position on the couch.
Yes, while I seem to have—so far, knock on wood—dodged the cankles bullet, the varicose veins bullet, and the feet-grew-a-whole-size-overnight bullet (watch as all three of those things happen in unison next week as punishment for jinxing myself), I have recently been hit hard by that other glamorous hallmark of pregnancy: the inability to rise from a supine position without emitting a rousing heeeeugghhhhhhhh as I heft myself up to standing.
(It's supremely attractive and ladylike, I assure you. Every time it happens, I wonder aloud why I haven't been invited to audition for the New York Ballet.)
In related news of the pregnancy-makes-you-feel-like-a-Mack-truck variety, I have also found that I have recently been losing my balance a little, probably because I am now tipped off center by my enormous belly and haven't yet figured out how to adjust. This has led to several instances of stumbling or swaying in public places, one of which, unfortunately, was in the Trader Joe's parking lot right after I'd bought a six-pack of beer. Didn't look good for me, is what I'm saying.
In fact, I seem to find myself buying alcohol a lot lately—for parties, for Sean, for those underage kids on the corner (JUST KIDDING, don't call the cops)—and feeling increasingly self-conscious while doing so. I've perfected a sort of hybrid sheepish/reassuring "don't worry, it's not for me" face while gazing intently at a wall of IPAs and trying to remember which one I was supposd to get, and I am also probably on some sort of neighborhood watch list somewhere, because I have recently said to three different cashiers at three different grocery stores "Hahaha! It's not mine, obviously! I'm not going to drink it!" while paying for some form of booze. All of them have responded with mild bemusement, to the point where I am beginning to suspect that I am actually drawing attention to myself by even making this joke. Ah, the lady doth protest too much! Clearly she is going to take this six-pack of Sierra Nevada home and chug it, bottle by bottle, over the sink!
(I do have to say that I never seem to get carded anymore, though. Apparently they figure if you're old enough to get knocked up, you're old enough to buy beer.)
Another thing that's happened this week—and you may be beginning to sense a theme here—is that I experienced, for the very first time, the inability to tie my own shoes. It wasn't that it was impossible to lean over and lace up my sneakers, you understand, more just that it was really kind of uncomfortable to reach them on my own terms. Whichever way I tried to bend, you see, the unwavering bulk of my belly kept getting in the way. It was a strange, helpless sensation—wait, hang on, I can't....reach one of my body parts?—and eventually Sean took pity on me and laced them up for me, which I guess was probably in his marriage vows somewhere, and also good practice for having a toddler.
Finally, the only other thing of note this week—apart from the fact that I am now waking up, like clockwork, at 12:45am, 2am, 3:15am, 4:30am, and 5:50am to pee, which I guess is useful conditioning for infanthood but is also sort of creepily punctual—is that the baby has turned into the wriggliest little wrigglemonster in the world as of late, and has been kicking and punching and somersaulting up a storm. We're even pretty sure he headbutted Sean's hand the other day, an action that caused Sean to jump back two feet in alarm as though he were about to break through the skin, Alien-style. My hypnobirthing book—which I have finally started reading, just so I can get it off my to-do list—is very big on making sure that the baby "feels that all of his movements are welcomed with love and joy," and while I am mostly pretty good at this, I have definitely been having to make a slightly more concerted effort lately. Just a hunch, but something tells me that shrieking GODDAMNIT THAT WAS MY PANCREAS isn't quite what they had in mind.