The Final Countdown

For the last few weeks, I’ve had the annoying experience of “The Final Countdown” (that awful song from one of the Rocky movie soundtracks) playing on repeat in my head. It’s only fitting. With only three short days to go until my C-section and birth of our son, I’m nervous, excited, and to be perfectly honest…scared sh*tless.

Most of my fear stems from the unknown. Will Tanner be healthy? Will he be a good baby? Will my surgery/recovery go smoothly? Will he let us sleep? Will Josh and I be able to handle the pressure of our growing family? Will Jorryn behave and be a good big sister to him or will we have to build him a baby cage for protection? The list goes on and on.

This morning I woke up at 5AM and couldn’t go back to sleep. My busy brain just kept reeling and my nearly 39-week-preggo body was aching in protest of my little “passenger.” But the end is near and though I’m freaking out a little, I’m also beyond ready to meet my son.

This may well be my last post for a while…until things settle down, at least. I’m off to enjoy my final few days “alone” with my sweet little girl, to toss some outstanding items in my hospital bag, and to try to sneak in a couple more naps and put my feet up while I still know the meaning of the word “rest.” Until next time, wish us luck!

Pop Quiz Time

Get ready, kids. It’s pop quiz time.

Which of the following is acceptable to say to a pregnant woman?

A)     WOW, you look like you are going to POP!!! When are you due?

B)      How far along are you? You’re HUGE!!!

C)      How many babies are in there?!?

D)     That must be a boy/girl. I can tell because of how ginormous your belly/ hips/back/butt is getting.

E)      You look great.

If you chose anything other than “E,” beware. You may have awoken the dragon.

Us preggos are a sensitive bunch. We know it, you know it. And while it may not be entirely fair that people have to tread lightly to avoid cascades of seemingly unwarranted tears or fits of hormonal rage it is what it is—and thankfully, it’s not permanent.

As I rapidly approach my due date at the end of the month, it’s kind of fun to watch the mixed reactions of awe and fear when I come around. Business owners and people in elevators look nervous, as if I’m going to drop to the floor and go into labor right there. Sensitive friends, family members, and strangers offer words of encouragement and tell me that the end is near and that I look great—despite the fact that I’m waddling around like a water buffalo with cankles. And then there’s the clueless and the just plain rude folks out there who feel the need to utter variations of A-D above.

I received the best compliment the other day. The hubs and I were at the waterpark with Jorryn and a woman came up to me and told me how cute I looked pregnant. Now, regardless of the veracity of that statement, it was the nicest thing anyone had said to me in days. And it made me feel good—especially since at the time I was hanging out (literally) in a bikini.

The moral of the story? In the land of pregnancy, a kind word or two goes a long, long way.  

Sh!t My Kid Eats…Literally

So, I’m just going to come out and say it. My kid is gross.

She will eat anything—and I mean ANYTHING—off the ground, picked off a wall (or her nose), from the trash…you name it, she’s probably tried it. I told the pediatrician about it and we had her tested for anemia. No dice. She just likes to put random crap (sometimes literally) in her mouth.

Here’s a partial list of inappropriate items that proved far too delicious for her to resist…and these are just the ones from recent memory:

Rabbit poop
Dried worms
Bird poop
Kitty litter
Hairballs
Her crib
Whole coffee beans
Cat food
Toilet paper/paper towels/Kleenex
Dirt
Flip flops
Leaves/sticks

The crowning glory was the poisoned ant bait I found with teeth marks in it. (Before you judge, I thought it was out of reach. And I would have called poison control but she only chewed on the plastic outside and didn’t seem to be acting strangely.)

Ironically, she won’t come within five feet of a vegetable. Those are flung off her high chair tray faster than I can bat an eye. Maybe if I wrapped broccoli in a cat turd I’d have better luck.

So for now it’s a game of vigilance and a test of speed. You’d be surprised how fast a 35-week-pregnant lady can move when her baby’s about to stuff poop down her gizzard. Good times.