I’ve got two more weeks of being held captive by the little eight-pound warden residing in my swollen uterus. And now that I’m on bed rest, I’ve got nothing but time to reflect on the last nine months: the good, the bad, and the seriously deranged.
In recent months, I’ve learned to be grateful for the simple things in life such as the ability to bend at the waist. Will leaving whatever I just dropped on the floor hurt anyone? Do I really need to wear socks or shoes or, hell, pants for that matter? Bending over might kill me or squish Baby Boy or kill me! Holy crap that hurts.
I’ve learned that the moment a woman becomes pregnant, she loses all aspects of privacy. Along with the welcome invasions of having my OB all up in my lady parts on a regular basis, welcome because he will be central in my regaining the ability to bend at the waist, I have experienced countless offensives.
“Are you going to breastfeed?” asked so many women (and men!) I can see the question coming from five miles away. In case you are wondering, the answer is, “my boobs, my business.”
“How much weight have you gained?” The handful of women who have asked this question should count their blessings that my parents raised me to be polite because my natural instinct is to kick them in the shin and whisper low and evil in their ears, “Enough, whore, enough. Ask again and you’ll lose the leg.”
“Can I touch your stomach?” No. Absolutely not. I defer to my husband’s answer to this awful suggestion: Do I come over to your house at 3 a.m. when you are sure to be sleeping and bang on your door? No, I do not, so kindly keep away from my baby’s home.
I’ve received the strangest unsolicited advice and comments I have ever heard. These I will rank in weirdness.
#4. “Consider having a water birth. It’s a great way to deliver without all the drugs. It’s like natural pain relief.” (Offered up by a midwife I met at a military spouse event.)
Um, floating around in a tub of my own amniotic fluid while buck ass naked in front of a crowd of people with no drugs to numb the fact that I am being ripped apart? No, thank you!
#3. “Don’t bother buying a crib because the baby will just sleep with you.” (Offered up by a friend who obviously does not move around in her sleep.)
I move around in my sleep. A lot. My sweet baby boy would end up punted across the room during my crazy, nocturnal thrashing. The husband, however, might enjoy a reprieve from my kicking and punching. No, I think baby will be much safer in his crib.
#2. “A woman is at her sexiest while pregnant. I think it’s all the fertility.” (Offered up by a man who works with my husband. I had just met him.)
What?! Why?! My creepy, stranger-danger, holy-moly-what-was-that instinct kicked in, so I got the heck out of Dodge. Ewww.
#1. And the craziest advice I received was, “I smoked pot through all of my labor and deliveries, and it was beautiful. So much better for the baby than the chemicals the hospital pumps into you. My daughter works in medical marijuana. I can get a couple of vaporizers for you.” (Offered by a crazy woman. I have no idea what her name is or why I got stuck talking to her.)
I have never smoked pot in my life, so I don’t think I will begin while pregnant. And I don’t think smoking a big fatty is on my approved medications list. I’m going to walk away from you know, Crazy Lady. The Patchouli you bathed in is making me want to vomit.
Most importantly, I’ve learned that my son, even in the womb, is an awesome little wonder.
He is shy. As soon as the ultrasound nurse turns the camera on, he brings his hands up to his face, covering half of his face. The husband and I get to see just enough to hope he inherits the best of both of us.
He has a fantastic sense of humor. He will lie perfectly still until he knows I am speaking to a large audience. At that exact moment is when he decides to tickle my pelvic bones with his tiny fingers.
He is strong. At midnight he likes to demonstrate his strength by perfecting a kick-punch combo that would wake the dead, or at least this exhausted woman.
He is caring. He ensures I do not overeat by kicking me square in the stomach two bites into a meal that took an hour to prepare. Thanks, Baby Boy. You certainly know how to look out for your mama.
Yes, I have only two more weeks to go. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m a little sad that this crazy ride is almost over. As much as I want to be able to tie my shoes, walk at a brisk pace, and drink a martini the size of my face, I will miss the moments that it was just Baby Boy and me: Him kicking me in the gut and me amazed by how fast he is becoming my little man.
Two more weeks, Baby Boy. Two more weeks until I can finally kiss your face.