35 Weeks, 35 Days To Go

So...moving on.

How's October 15th sound for having a baby?

Thanks to some big new initiative to bring down c-section rates, my hospital refused to let my doctor schedule the surgery/birth/gutting/whatever on the date we'd originally planned for (October 10th). All scheduled sections must be LESS than a week before your due date, and apparently they'll even fight you on anything more than a couple DAYS ahead of time. This means I've been scheduled a mere three days before a due date that I do not even agree with (October 18th). (My wildly wonky cycle and wildly inconsistent early ultrasounds gave us dates spanning over a week apart, my doctor picked one from somewhere in the middle.)

My math puts my due date somewhere around the 13th or the 14th. Which means...

I may very well end up going into labor anyway.

*tosses up hands and laughs, panics at the realization that oh fuck, I have not done nearly enough kegels*

I don't think this baby is as big as Noah. I really don't. I have no real reason to think this, other than a vague sort of smallish vibe-feeling. I think he's head down. I THINK he's face down, or close to it. But I know second babies are more likely to be bigger, not smaller, and that my problems at Noah's birth had a lot to do with my pelvic shape (you know, IN ADDITION to the macrosomic and posterior baby who pooped in utero and had the cord wrapped around his neck), so it could all just be wishful thinking on my part.

The next few weeks will include a lot of monitoring of the baby's size and position, which is of course wildly inaccurate, but I'm hoping it will tell us enough to know whether I could safely roll with labor for a little while or if I should proceed immediately to surgery. My doctor's only concern is the physical limitations of our hospital, which gets insanely crowded (I know, since I had to labor in the triage area for HOURS last time before an actual room opened up), and there's no guarantee that an operating room will even be available if I were to run into trouble. Which, yeah, could technically be pretty bloody well likely, given my previous history of BIRTHING CLUSTERFUCK!!!1!!1

But regardless, he's up for the checking and letting me see what happens, particularly if I go into labor early, when there's a better chance for a reasonably sized baby. I doubt that will happen -- my guess is I'll start having contractions the morning of the 15th, leading to a big whole hassle as my surgery time approaches as we go back and forth and eh? Should we try? Yes, no? Maybe? Eh?

Jason seems a little wigged out all of a sudden, since he's always been in favor of keeping things as calm and controlled as possible, and now wants me to indulge in every old wives' tale out there for inducing labor to get this kid out before he qualifies for the next NFL draft.

I'm feeling very DONE, either way. My skin is stretched beyond insanity, my ribs feel bruised, the heartburn is unbearable (I get it from EVERYTHING, including WATER THAT IS TOO COLD), and I've started throwing up again. My clothes don't fit, I've graduated to the uber-sexy nursing bras, and I'm already not sleeping. Bring it, baby. Let's get the real party started.

I'll provide the footwear.

NOM.

NOM NOM.

NOM NOM NOM GET OUT HERE BABY SO I CAN EAT YOU.