So I had an OB appointment this week. On Wednesday, actually. Those of you on Twitter might have seen one or two or three or seven hundred GAR ANGRY POKING! PHONE! KEYBOARD! REALLY! HARD! messages about it, and yet only now, two days later, do I feel calm enough to talk about.
Not because of any news I received at the visit -- as expected, all that false labor did absolutely nothing and my cervix is settled in for a nice long snug winter -- but because the office was running over TWO HOURS behind schedule. Two hours! And of course, they were not calling patients to let them know about the delay, but instead chose to let our bodies pile up in the waiting room.
Naturally, my appointment time was already much later in the morning than usual, so I was already cutting it close with the preschool pick-up time. I'd arranged for Noah to eat lunch at school -- buying myself an extra half hour or so -- but eventually the receptionist just told me to go ahead and pick him up at school. And then come back. You know, to WAIT SOME MORE.
This meant my first official late-stage prenatal visit -- the kind where you no longer wear pants -- involved trying to wrangle a cranky almost-three-year-old (without a diaper bag, without juice or snacks or toys and also AT NAPTIME) while holding a paper drape around my ass, begging him to please sit on that chair and not touch that super-expensive ultrasound machine, yes yes, I SEE THE BUTTONS. PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THE BUTTONS.
My 11:20 appointment was finally over sometime after 1:30, and I screamed the words to "Row Row Your Boat" at the top of my lungs the entire way home because as God is my witness, you will NOT nap until we are home and your ass is in bed; Mama has big plans to spend the rest of the day staring blankly at the ceiling.
In actual baby news, he's very high up. Still. Despite a noticeable downward slope to my belly, once again my bear trap of a pelvis is keeping my uterus from actually dropping like it's supposed to. After rooting around up in *there* for awhile, my doctor nodded and informed me that surprise, I appear to still own the exact same narrow pelvis as last time. (I really did mean to get around to a trade-in, but I was waiting for a more fuel-efficient hybrid model to come on the market.)
It was around this point in my last pregnancy that my doctor first mentioned that he saw a c-section as a definite possibility for me. Unless my pelvis did some amazing parting-of-the-Red-Sea action during labor, he was concerned that I was simply not built for a vaginal birth. I, of course, proceeded to pitch a total hissy fit about it, and then pitched ANOTHER hissy fit when a small minority of people told me that a narrow pelvis was a MYTH and a LIE and that women's bodies never grow babies too big for them to deliver (FACT!) and that any doctor who suggests a c-section before you've gone into labor is a lying liar who should be disbarred or whatever they do to doctors who shouldn't be allowed to practice medicine anymore. Taken out back and shot, maybe.
(Not that Stupid & Annoying is confined to the Internet, or anything, as I once had someone ask me about Noah's birth, and after I provided the cursory details -- 10 pound baby, narrow pelvis, the laws of physics and basic geometry, emergency c-section -- they suspiciously looked me up and down and said that was interesting, since I certainly didn't look all that small or narrow, stopping just short of accusing my doctor of childbirth-related vanity sizing.)
Anyway, not like it's a big surprise or anything, but the recommendation of a c-section still stands, and stands very strongly. Even if I were to go into labor tomorrow, it's unlikely I'd be able to deliver this baby without risking injury and complications for both of us. My doctor will support any decision I make, will not pressure me one way or another, but hi! I think I'd like to assume most of the risk in this birth scenario and get my little one out with minimal danger and damage to his presumably lovely little shoulders.
19 more days to go. I keep reminding myself that 19 days really isn't very long at all, and that every day he stays put is still wholly for the best right now, and that his birth will likely usher in a bona fide shitstorm of clusterfuckery and bleeding nipples and the urge to send Noah off to boarding preschool, and that I should enjoy and savor these final days of rolly roundness and fetal elbow pokes and yet OH MY GOD GET OOOOOUUUUUUUTTTTTTTT.
(For further evidence of the weird way my body carries its young, one can look right at those there jeans, which are regular old non-maternity pre-pregnancy jeans. Meanwhile, it takes the combined layering force of one extra-large mens' wifebeater and one large stretched-to-the-max maternity sweater to SORT OF cover the belly.)
(Don't forget the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see this jelly and cop a feel IN PERSON at the Sleep is for the Weak signing thingie tomorrow night.)