It looks like we are seriously, 100%, actually going to have a baby ‘round here. You may have realized that back when I announced I was pregnant or when I whined about the first trimester, but I don’t think it sunk into Mama’s brain until yesterday. We had our 36 week appointment. After our first appointment around 9 weeks, the exams were simple: walk in, lie back, listen for heartbeat over stomach, see you in four weeks. But yesterday, the gown and stirrups reappeared for a more thorough check-up of the peanut.
I’m so glad I can look back at my pregnancy and fondly recount to Addison that one time the doctor was checking on her and all of a sudden said, “Oops. Gross!” Mama has never felt more confident or attractive. The doctor dropped one of her “tools” straight out of my hooha and into her lap. I’m so sorry that my pregnant anatomy disgusts you, Dr. Dropsies. I’m not a huge fan of your scaly man hands, but you don’t see me throwing out tactless epithets in the exam room, do you?
When the nurse tried to prep for a re-do, they were out of whatever sharp, pointy torture device they needed. So she opened the door and went to retrieve another one. With my knees still pointed up to the ceiling and my dress pulled up over my chin. I understand that the medical team may adopt the “you’ve seen one woman’s ladybits, you’ve seen them all” mentality, but I’d really prefer that my ladybits not be that one. And I don’t believe patients innocently walking through the hallway necessarily want to stumble onto that makeshift Cinemax set.
When things got back to normal—as normal as metal objects and latex gloves poking around your uterus can be—the doctor checked on the position of the baby. “Her head has dropped a little,” she noted. At the time, her comment breezed right past me and I got down to business asking the 14 questions saved on my phone about labor and delivery and breaking water and all that otherworldly mess.
About four minutes into the drive home, it hit me. There is a head. That the doctor just felt. That is most likely attached to an entire little baby. In my body. THERE IS A BABY IN MY BODY.
I explained this to Clayton when he called about dinner plans, but he seemed to have known that these past nine months have confirmed the whole “baby in body” thing already. At least for him. He was more worried about the grocery list. Men.
So there you have it. There really is a little baby on the way, and she is getting herself locked, loaded and into position for her debut. I don’t think this means anything concrete about how soon (or not soon) we may get to meet her, but it’s stop-you-in-your-tracks thrilling to realize that we definitely ARE going to meet her one of these days.