Hey, Hell, I Pay the Price

I'm still pregnant.

Today is my fourth? fifth? bazillion-and-twenty-seventh? Bio-Physical sonogram. Sonograms feel like a dime a dozen these days, and they aren't even offering pictures anymore. I need to say something about that today. Especially since we're getting a weight estimate.

My money is on at least seven pounds. We are seriously out of space in this belly of mine.

I had 22 weekly Progesterone shots to stop labor. I haven't had one in two weeks and now we may have to induce in the next week or two. My uterus cannot make up her damn mind.

And despite not having one for two weeks, I still have five golf-ball-sized welts all across my hips from the shots. They feel gross. And still tender.

I was putting my hair up in a pony tail in front of a mirror last week (that whole "in front of a mirror" being important, as I'm too lazy - and have too much gravity in my belly - to get up easily) and discovered that I?

I had grown some freaky neck-beard.

No, not kidding.

Five inches of baby-down fluff neck-beard. It was gross. Aaron laughed. And then I made him shave my neck.

And my face.

Because it was there too.

Gross.

I got my nursing bras in the mail yesterday. And it's becoming alarmingly real. And I'm gonna have to wear them for about a year.

Buying bras for me is super-difficult as-is. Let alone nursing bras. And one of the few companies that make them in my size is called HOT MILK and it's lacy and sparkly and Aaron's very concerned about me flashing such a bra in public.

But he gets to see it too, so what's his complaint?

HOT MILK. Hahahahahaha.

I've been meaning to, for days, to teach Griffin how to clean the bathroom floor. Because I just can't reach it. And yet, MommyGuilt has kicked in and I just can't bring myself to be all "Baby, let's wipe down the bathroom floor."

I should make Aaron wipe it down instead.

My pants and shirts no longer meet. Which means, unless I remember to put on a tank top (and the heat index around here has been over 100 degrees everyday) and tuck it into my pants, I'm walking around exposing my belly button and a three-inch band of belly skin to the world.

This is especially classy when going to the boys' elementary school to drop off Epi-Pens, Benadryl and Motrin for the new school year.

The new principal was rather awe-struck, if I do say so myself.

Griffin has been telling my belly that he's gonna be really! pissed! off! if the baby doesn't come by tonight, at the latest. "I'm tired of being patient. This is ridiculous, Momma."

I think he wants his brother to come before schools starts - on Monday - so his schedule isn't disrupted.

Kid after my own heart.

Don't fuck with our schedules.

Bags are packed, including clothes, blankets, clothes and allergen-free soap for the baby - yes. We can't use hospital soap. Can't chance an allergic reaction.

The baby is opted out of all eye goo, shots and anything that would go in or on him. And he has to be in a latex-free environment. After what happened to Darwin (nine days in the NICU, nearly died, no one knew what was going on - now we know he had anaphylactic shock to something, we just don't know what), we're doing our best to not take any chances with Baby M.

The hospital even ordered Neocate in case they feel he needs some supplementation before my milk comes in.

Which I really hope doesn't happen, but it's best to be prepared.

Cloth diapers are washed and dried (five! times!) and ready to go when he fits and he's healed from losing his umbilical cord.


Because, of course, his brothers were allergic to most disposable diapers. And we spent an arm and a leg, weekly, keeping them in clean britches.

The crib is put together :: cough, cough :: but not completely ready. ::ahem::

The van is cleaned and reorganized, the baby's car seat is aired-out, washed and ready to be installed.

The cord-blood kit is sitting next to the door. And my medical records are right on top.

I have just a wee bit more binding to sew on, then the baby's quilt is ready to be washed. (Sidenote: those binding corners are tricky. And I don't appreciate that.)

The house is stocked with food and even though I don't feel prepared, I can't imagine we'll be anymore prepared than we are right now.