Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Due Date

Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Today is my due date.


I had been told by everyone in the entire world, and I completely understood, that due dates are essentially meaningless. I knew the Fetus would liberate itself when it sees fit, and only when it sees fit (or is forced out by the medical team at Foothills Hospital).


But seriously, I am goal oriented. I am the person who counts down the sleeps until Christmas starting in October. I like to check dates off, rip the calendar pages down, draw big Xs. 


This is not working to my advantage, it seems.


I'm sure that over the course of the next few weeks rest of my life, I will regret things I did before I was a parent. I have many, many times made eyebrow waggling comments about the best way to get the baby out being the same way it got in there.


I have since learned the error of my ways. When you are 40 weeks pregnant and feel like you've swallowed a beach ball inhabited by a hyperactive frog and it hurts to sit/stand/lie down/move, there is nothing appealing about that particular labour inducing technique. I'm also sure that if you're married to someone who is 40 weeks pregnant and who feels like they've swallowed a beach ball inhabited by a hyperactive frog, who bitches about how hard it is to put on pants and how much it hurts to simply exist, the idea isn't really that appealing either.


I have never had so many people interested in the state of my cervix before, and I hope that as soon as the baby is delivered, no one will ever ask again. I am not a shy person, but I don't really think I need to discuss those specifics with everyone I know.


But anyway. I'm still pregnant. Here I am. Waiting. And every time I move and feel something funny, I think, "THIS IS IT!"*


But it's not, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to be pregnant forever.






*It, for the record, is usually gas. I have never been more attractive in my entire life.



Wednesday, March 12, 2014

My old CDs

Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Gary's favourite way to unwind and relax after a long day of work is to organize files on his computer.

I am not kidding.

As I write this, we're listening to the music files he's going through, meta tagging them or otherwise doing stuff to organize them that I totally don't understand. They happen to be the last vestiges of my personal CD collection, tucked away in a binder that I had forgotten about until recently, when an insane urge to clean EVERYTHING ALL DAY LONG hit. 

They call it "nesting" - I call it, the junk drawer is clean for the first and last time in history and I had to throw out all my socks that didn't match because it was keeping me up at night.

So I found this stash of CDs. They're the ones I used to listen to, over and over and over, driving my parents crazy. I'd lie on my bed and dream about the day I'd be a grown-up lady, living in the city, having all kinds of glamorous affairs and wearing fur and costume jewellery and having giant, awesome hair and basically, being a Danielle Steel novel character, but a post-Y2K version.

I played those songs ad nauseum, imaging what life would be like on the cusp of my thirties.

I did not for one second imagine I'd be spending it listening to the same songs, wearing the most hideous, frilly, little-house-on-the-maternity-ward nightgown at 7:30 pm because you guys, PANTS HURT when you're 39 weeks pregnant. 

But here I am. And aside from being more uncomfortable than I've been in my entire life and more than a little nostalgic, it's not so bad. :Life as a grown-up lady has turned out to be not exactly what I expected, but pretty darn good. Unlike Danielle Steel's new novels. 

Oh my god, you guys, do not read the new Danielle Steel novels.