Four, Three, Two Days

Yep. Still pregnant. TiVo has two more days to come out peacefully before we go in after him.

(Comparison shot at 40 weeks from last time, although slightly more STRAIGHT-ON CLOSE-UP OH-THE-HORROR.)

And yes! These were taken in the same mirror as every other belly shot I've taken over the past year. The completely different furniture? Yeah. I did that. It needed to be done. The itching and the leg twitching and the terrible, terrible screaming wouldn't stop until I could say that truly, we have officially rearranged the furniture in every damn room in the house.

(Last night I had just upended both of our bedside endtables [the doors were opening the wrong way and each needed to be swapped to the other side, but of course that meant the contents needed to be swapped and while I was there I MIGHT AS WELL completely purge and reorganize them, I mean, really] when I realized that I was supposed to be meeting a bunch of bloggers who are here for the DC BlogHer mini-thing going on, which of course I didn't register for because hello! Still pregnant on October 13th? Fuck that idea and you and everything else in the entire world grrrarrr.)

(I made it to the dinner on time. I'm sure I was fucking DELIGHTFUL ray of sunshine. I ate a burrito and later woke up at 4 am timing what I hoped were contractions but were probably just gas.)

Now.

I know we've all had a lot of laughs at my expense regarding the crazy, crazy nesting thing that I do. I fully own up to the fact that I go way beyond nesting. Fuck twigs and feathers and dusting the baseboards -- I'd probably up and build a house from the ground up if you'd let me. Unhappy with your home renovation project? Don't hire just another contractor to take over -- get yourself a nine-months-pregnant lady in there. Extreme Nesting: Hardhat Oh-My-God-How-Am-I-Not-In-Labor-Already Edition.

But.

If you want to know why there is currently about five or six inches of a metal drill bit sticking out of my roof, let me assure you that I had NOTHING TO DO WITH IT.

Okay, maybe a little bit, since it was my idea to turn our cluttered, unused office area into more of a dressing/walk-in closet area, and this meant we also needed to rearrange the rest of the bedroom furniture, which meant moving the TV, which meant the cable outlet was now on the wrong wall, which meant a visible curling cable wire snaking across the room, lying in wait to jump up and snag you in the ankles, POSSIBLY WHILE YOU WERE HOLDING A NEWBORN, which meant we needed to run cable into a different wall.

Jason was all over this job, because POWER TOOLS. In particular, his BIG FUCKING ASS DRILL BIT, long enough to drill through walls and God knows what else. Lesser men's egos, perhaps.

It actually seemed simple enough, what with a closet on the other side of the wall and the attic above and he started drilling through the closet ceiling and then heading up to the attic to check for the hole to drop the cable into and...hmm. No hole. Must drill more! Harder, deeper, MOAR.

This went on a few times. No hole in the attic flooring. More drilling. Then...the drill bit got lodged in something. Jason guessed a two-by-four. And he couldn't get it out. The drill's motor coughed and choked and then gave up the ghost.

"Goddamit," he said. "I think I have to go buy a more powerful drill."

Needless to say, I was annoyed, because we really don't have the money right now for a more powerful drill. In my mind, since Jason told me we didn't have the money right now for a trip to Ikea for Storage Solutions (thus necessitating the relocation of old beat-up dressers instead of the actual walk-in-closet coordinating system of my organizational wet dreams), we don't have the money right now for ANYTHING. Especially drills that I will never use and will not help me categorize my shoes by heel height.

Jason left to go the hardware store. I continued sorting my pajamas in nursing-friendly and non-nursing-friendly categories, then got to work on my annotated and footnoted list of things that need to go into the hospital bag right before we leave.

(Samples: iPOD & HEADPHONES --> buy that damn Kid Rock song off iTunes first okay shut up; PILLOW & NURSING PILLOW --> pack in shopping bag for swiping hospital supplies later.)

A few minutes later he came back inside.

"Well. Okay." he said. "I realize why I couldn't find the hole in the attic now."

"And?"

"The hole is...in our roof."

So. Yes. While drilling through the closet ceiling, my husband drilled too close to the edge of the house and into a front vestibule-ish thing and THAT is why there is a drill bit sticking up out of our roof right now.

(Alternate caption: Luuuucyyyyy!)

I think that's all I need to say about that, except that I laughed and laughed until tears poured down my face and I could only barely manage to tell Jason that while I don't think I've ever been this furious with him, the thought of him having to call a professional roofer and explain this one makes it all so completely worth it.

Five Days

I know that I am not exactly the perfect picture of grace and sunshine and joy right now, but I think, in light of everything going on in the world and our economy and financial infrastructure coming down around our ears, that even I was NOT enormously pregnant and scared out of my mind about my now multiple children's futures, I would still really want to punch these people.

Although there's something in their super! excited! yaaaaaay banking! faces and their desperately clenched-up pile of hands that suggests that:

1) The guy on the far left knows, deep down, that he is straight-up FUCKED,

2) The woman next to him has already snapped like a damn rubber band,

3) The guy next to her is thinking very seriously about that window ledge outside of the conference room,

4) The woman on the far right has been medicating her terror with a steady shitload of Red Bulls.

I am just saying. If there were ever a time to switch the stock photography to something more generically somber and banky -- a calculator and a spreadsheet, perhaps, or the all-purpose Dude In A Suit On A Cell Phone -- now would probably be that time.

(Please note Jason's disapproving profile watching me snap this picture, begging me not to make dumb jokes on my website about the financial crisis.)

(I've said it a million times already but I'm saying it again: I am really very glad that I don't work in financial publishing anymore, spending my days looking for ways to spin the daily news into something other than WE ARE ALL SO TOTALLY SCREWED. I'd probably end up hitting the thesaurus and writing something like WE ARE ALL SO TOTALLY WITNESSING AN UNPRECEDENTED AND HISTORIC BUYING OPPORTUNITY, THANKS TO SHORT-SELLERS AND OVERLEVERAGED COMPANIES, AT LEAST WE ARE IF YOU STILL HAVE ANY MONEY LEFT, WHICH, HEY, SORRY ABOUT THAT.)

(Hmm. I may be a little rustier than I thought. Blogging has officially left me with no marketable skills.)

(Beyond, say, posting yet another variation on the same damn entry and photo for the fourth day in a row.)

WE ARE ALL SO TOTALLY SCREWED! YAAAAAAY!

Six Days

The contractions started about an hour before my scheduled OB appointment time, conveniently enough. By the time I started paying attention (shut up, my mascara rolled behind the toilet so I was mighty preoccupied with the retrieval process for awhile), they were about 10 minutes apart. I announced this fact to the receptionist and was a little surprised by the SERIOUS TIZZY it threw everyone into -- like, for real? You take this sort of thing seriously? I barely notice anymore.

I was hooked up the monitors for a non-stress test, and of course the contractions stopped dead the instant I hopped up on that table. The baby has a lovely, wonderfully perfect heart rate and I now have his pointy and incessant jabbiness charted out on paper.

What we don't have is any cervix dilation or signs of actual labor. Surprise!

(We also don't have a confirmation call from the hospital yet about my c-section or arrangements for me to come in and get pre-op blood work done. Which raised everyone's eyebrows because yeah, I should have gotten that call by now. I am now waiting for ANOTHER call from Office Manager Person today, who will be double- and triple-checking that I AM INDEED SCHEDULED, and I will have ya'll know that I kept smiling the whole time and refrained from throwing the contents of the bio-hazardous waste containers at ANYONE, lest I get accused of OVERREACTING OR ANYTHING.)

(I actually saved my anger and dirty looks for the poor cashier at Starbucks who informed me that they were out of the sausage, egg and cheese Yuppie McMuffin that I really, REALLY wanted, because come on, I was just told that I wasn't in labor after all and NOW THIS? SERIOUSLY? I don't want a savory fancy folded piadiavanno or whatever the fuck made up word Starbucks is calling their new breakfast sandwiches, I WANT THE MCMUFFINY ONE. I mean, how much can the universe expect one person to take?)

I gained two pounds this week -- my most ever! -- putting me at 21-ish pounds total. (Way to GO, five months of vomiting. You so rock!) When I was lying down my doctor guessed the baby is around eight-ish pounds, but then when I sat up and my belly tumbled forward and outward into its full glory, she said, "Oh. Wow. Hmm. That's a little bigger."

I are eight-ish punds. I are so not that fat. I totally judging rite now.

Seven Days

Okay, okay. I've read the comments and while ya'll are just fascinated with the non-stop pregnancy talk, a bunch of you really want me to talk about my hair.

OH MY GOD! Bangs! Revolutionary, life-changing bangs!

I went back to a former stylist this weekend -- one who moved away and raised her prices and left me adrift in a sea of mediocre stylists who would examine my hair and listen to my requests and then proceed to cut yet another variation on Suburban Mom Does The Rachel -- and after examining my cut ("Eh.") and color ("Ew."), patted my head and promised to fix everything. And indeed, I can now put it up in an unwashed, stringy ponytail and have it not look like complete ass. I'm gonna look so totally awesome in my hospital photos! The bangs are sure to distract from the pothole-sized bags under my eyes! My body will look like a loaf of bread that got bagged under the milk and four cans of SpaghettiO's but hot damn, my highlights are RADIANT. 

Anyway. I think I have some furniture to rearrange, or something. Plus I'm hoping to talk Jason into taking me Ikea tonight for some Storage Solutions. I really, really need some Storage Solutions. And it's been entirely too long since I broke down into hysterical hex-key-related sobbing.

If I were a Swedish piece of furniture I think I'd call myself the Blobtörpt.

Eight Days

So hey! Let's tear the shit out of the house.

And tomorrow a plumber is coming to tell me how much it will cost to completely fuck up the guest bathroom. Impeccable timing! We has it!

(We also has a LOT of holes in the ceiling, suddenly. That's at least two more than I bargained for right there.)

But! Properly centered light fixtures, new wall outlets, a motion-sensing lamp for the backyard and a ceiling fan that you can actually control using the WALL SWITCH instead of the SWITCH THAT IS BEHIND THE INSULATION UPSTAIRS IN THE ATTIC AND I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING ABOUT THAT are all essential things that you MUST have before they let you bring a baby home. Which we will be doing. Next week. At some point. After he is born. In eight days. Oh my God.

He has a name, finally, at least. I SUPPOSE that's almost as important as wall outlets. MAYBE.

38 Weeks & Change, No Comment

Okay, maybe just one comment: False labor all damn weekend. One "oh shit, did my water just break?" moment (NO, BUT EW), countless motherfucking bend-over-and-yelp level contractions, still no actual -- you know -- BABY.

I'm actually closer to 39 weeks now, but I forgot to post photos on Friday because I was busy taking a nap. Well, I TRIED to take a nap but the baby woke up and was kicking too hard for me to take a nap. He's really very pointy. I just lay on the couch and moaned instead, then ate an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's frozen yogurt, and dude. It's low fat and delicious but that is just not a good idea when your stomach has been displaced to a small area somewhere under your left boob. After that there was some more moaning.

Anyway. I am in no mood for life right now, and my irritation at everything is irritating me even more than my very sore hip joints.

Nine days to go. I know I'll miss his jabby elbows and the feel of his toes under my skin. I know I will. But right now the idea of holding him in my arms is freaking delicious, so forgive the crazy back-and-forth between "OMFG BABY IN NINE DAYS HALP" and "OMFG NINE DAYS UNTIL BABY ARE YOU KIDDING ME." I don't even know anymore either. Perhaps I should get back to work on that nap, or refold the burp cloths, or make sure that all the lightbulbs are still screwed in securely.

Um. Never Mind.

They just called.

I'm scheduled for October 15th at 2 pm, with my regular doctor, all is set and well. They still did not apologize, but hey, I wrote a bazillion angry paragraphs about them on the Internet. So...I win. I think.

*cough*

And yet the anxiety-related cookie consumption continues unabated. Hmm.

Possibly the Most Foul-Mouthed Entry I've Ever Published & That's Fucking Saying Something

Oh my God.

Oh my FUCKING God.

No, seriously. Sit down. Are you sitting? I have to tell you something. I will probably sputter and swear and knock over your coffee. Then I'm going to need you to stand up and shake me. Or slap me across the face.

So I had an OB appointment this morning. Not with my regular OB, but the new doctor he just brought on as a partner -- you know, just in case I go into labor before my SCHEDULED C-SECTION and my doctor isn't available. I liked her! A lot! She took her time, asked a lot of questions, let me listen to the heartbeat for longer than usual and determined that the baby is indeed head-down (yay!), biggish but not 10 pounds biggish (yay-ish?), and my cervix is still closed (boo!).

She asked if I had any questions, and at first I was all, noooo, and then I was all, oh yeah! About that SCHEDULED C-SECTION? On the 15th? Less than two weeks from now? Uh...what time am I supposed to show up for that, and stuff?

The nurse looked at me kind of strangely. "Didn't <Office Manager Person> call you about all that yet?"

Uh...no! Should she have?

Okay. So...here's the thing about SCHEDULED C-SECTIONS. They do not, apparently schedule their own damn selves. At some point in the scheduling process, SOMEONE needs to call the hospital and like, actually fucking schedule the fucking c-section.

Mine was not scheduled. There's a nice little note on my chart stating that yes, I am to have a scheduled repeat c-section on October 15th and...that's it.

And then!

Then!

At this point, I do not really KNOW that my surgery was never scheduled. I put my pants on and go out to the waiting room, hoping that the forgotten phone was just the one to ME, not the one to the HOSPITAL, I mean, COME ON. I adore my OB and have put up with a LOT of disorganization from his office staff over the YEARS AND YEARS I have been a patient, but...seriously. No way. Somebody fucking called the hospital. I'm sure they did.

But then the nurse is there with a prenatal vitamin branded pen and a pad of IUD branded post-it notes, asking me for the best number to reach me at and...WAIT FOR IT...whether or not I felt "strongly" about my regular doctor being the one performing the surgery or would I be okay with the other doctor -- WHO I JUST MET FIVE MINUTES BEFORE FOR THE FIRST TIME -- because that would just like, make this sooooo much easier for them, you know?

I just stared at her. And stammered. Because...wait. BACK THE FUCK UP.

"It was never scheduled." I said. Just to make that clear, since she seemed like she kind of wanted to skip over that part.

"No." she said.

I waited for an apology. She asked me again how strong my preference for my own doctor was. I became vaguely aware of brain fluid leaking out of my ears.

After I stated that yeah, uh, I wanted my own damn doctor, full stop, she smiled and said she'd go ahead and tell <Office Manager Person> that I needed to be scheduled with my own damn doctor. Like she was doing me a favor. You know, because I'm 38 weeks pregnant and clearly a little wrapped up in SILLY INSIGNIFICANT DETAILS, like actually caring about who performs major abdominal surgery on me and delivers my child.

My doctor is, surprise surprise, overbooked. The hospital is likely booked at this point as well. I am waiting for them to call me and let me know what they've been able to work out. I am to call them if I don't hear anything by 3:30 this afternoon, which...DUDE. YOU DO NOT WANT TO MAKE ME DO THAT. YOU WOULD BE WISE TO CALL ME OF YOUR OWN ACCORD.

I am also mentally apologizing to Katherine Heigl's character in Knocked Up, because I called her a bitch prima donna for getting so worked up about her doctor being out of town when she went into labor, like whatever. God. Also fuming. And pacing. Also composing an email to my doctor about what happened this morning, which is not going well. Wording suggestions would be welcome, since I have lost the ability to form coherant sentences without a lot of FUCK FUCKITY FUCK FUCK FUCK CAPS LOCK GAH SMASH and the like.

*glares angrily at phone*

I realize, of course, that this is not the end of the world or anything. It could all still work out fine, with my doctor, hospital and date of choice all being available after all. There was always the chance of going into labor on my own and ending up with a different doctor, of being rushed into surgery instead of a calm, scheduled appointment, of booking across town in the middle of the night to drop Noah off with friends instead of having grandparents already here and in place and ready to go. If I'd met today's doctor a few months ago instead of a FEW HOURS, I'd probably be just fine with her performing the surgery. I could go into labor tomorrow (FAT FUCKING CHANCE THOUGH) and push the kid out just fine (PFFT) and laugh heartily at this whole fiasco because babies! They do like to fuck with you, don't they?

And yet...

WHAT. THE. FUCK. This is a fucking heap of bullshit, and it's making me stabby.   

Probably Not One For the Baby Book

It just occurred to me that by this time in TWO WEEKS, as in TWO WEEKS from today, I will have another child, as in an infant living outside of my body, plus a three-year-old, in just TWO WEEKS, TWO WEEKS, and that's if I make it to the c-section date, which I might not, but either way, TWO WEEKS, holy fucking shit popsicle on a fucking stick.

That is all. As you were.