Last weekend, I passed another personal pregnancy milestone. On Saturday, I was 36 weeks pregnant – the day my big kids were born.
I am now more pregnant than I have ever been.
And, clearly, the rest of the world knows it. Total stranger at Whole Foods remarked that I must be counting down the seconds. The kids’ preschool teachers are almost laughing at the sight of me. Most maternity shirts are providing woefully inadequate coverage, and even the full-panel pants don’t want to stay up over the belly, resulting in what I call “the inadvertent midriff.” And believe me, I don’t have one of those cute bellies that is begging to be shown off. It’s just… pudgy and jiggly, with residual stretch-marks, and hanging out there. Just what I want to put on display for the world to see.
But, hey. I’m here. I’m glad. Baby seems to be happy and growing (we’ll see, more appointments this week, of course). I get to meet her sometime in the next three weeks, and I am psyched. I’m as ready as I’m going to get. Her room is ready. I bought a pack of diapers and packed a bag for the hospital. As of this weekend, the van is getting rearranged to accommodate a new car seat. My mom is coming for one last visit. I will be officially full-term.
Yeah, yeah, I know an extra week or two would be a good thing and would make a difference as far as sleepy late-preterm babies and all of that. And while I’m convinced that I won’t make it to my scheduled c-section (at a whopping 39w4d), I also do not feel like labor is all that imminent. But hey, if I become one of those urban-legend, go-into-labor-at-the-full-moon women this weekend? I’m not gonna stress about it.
It’s nearly time.