At 36 weeks, this pregnancy has reached the status of Spectacle. No sneaking into a room for me. I am giiiinormous, and feeling sort of beautiful about it.
The drawback to such conspicuous largeness: the need to discuss my due date with every passing stranger and appropriately answer the question, “Are you excited? You must be getting so excited!” many times a day. (See Emotional).
The OB du jour, this morning, said the baby’s head is down and is “pretty low,” and that my cervix is “soft, but not open yet.”
Then she said, “I think you have a couple more weeks.”
A couple more weeks?! Didn’t she look at my chart? I am 36 weeks now. I get four more weeks. FOUR! I need those weeks! I need them to unearth newborn paraphernalia and send poems out to be published and mail birthday gifts and savor being pregnant and get a little bit farther over my last post-partum period. I need those weeks, if nothing else, to finish the big, big projects at work that I am at this very moment procrastinating about. Gaah!
I know babies will come when they come, and OBs will say what they will, but Ack! And also Aaaghh! Baby? Coming? In two weeks? Not ready. Not. Ready.
The doctor seemed surprised that I was hoping to go longer. Could I really be the only patient she’s ever seen who, given the option, would gladly gestate Junior until, like, his or her first birthday?