I haven’t been writing because, like I said, I can’t feel my fingers (among other issues). But I know that if I don’t at least keep this blog moderately updated, my babies will be here and I will have missed the chance to truly capture what it was like to be pregnant. So I’m typing with ghost fingers, and I keep accidnetally hitring teh wonrg bittons.
I can’t believe I’m here, but it’s 37 weeks, and I have been given one more week before the docs have scheduled an induction. Next Wednesday, July 26, unless they come early or I decide to wait a little longer, I will meet my children. This sounds absolutely made-up to me, and I have mixed feelings. On one hand, I am SO EXCITED! I can’t wait to see their little faces and cuddle them and talk to them and name them and feed them and be amazed at how much love is in my life! I can’t wait to feel my fingers again, and lose a ton of weight immediately, and have normal-sized feet, and be able to walk without my whole body hurting, give my husband a full-frontal hug, sleep without all these pillows, lie on my back comfortably, have a cold, frosty IPA, and go surfing again!
However…I don’t want an induction. I don’t want a painful, pitocin-induced birth that will most likely lead to an epidural, though hopefully not any other medical interventions. I want these babies to pick their own birthday; I don’t want to pick it for them! Especially when I know they’re thriving and healthy. So babies, I plead, please come out this week on your own. Because here’s the thing: as much as I don’t want to be induced, I can’t take much more of this pregnancy. I can’t take much more of lying on the couch watching Netflix like an invalid, then forcing myself to get some sort of exercise for an hour or two, which is miserably interrupted every eight minutes by my need to pee. I need my body back, and I am not as patient as I’d like to be. So if the docs say 38 weeks is the end, I am leaning toward saying, “sounds good.”
In some ways, this pregnancy has zoomed by like a falling star. But this past couple weeks, it has felt as interminable as a visit to the DMV. All the physical ailments are torture enough, but I think the worst part for me is the mental incapacity. I can literally think of nothing else but these babies. I have no desire to work on any projects or meet up with anyone, because my brain doesn’t have the ability to squeeze in any concerns but pregnancy and labor and newborns, and I am aware at how paint-dryingly boring that is. It’s hard when anyone tries to make a plan with me because I know the babies might decide to come any time. My attention span is crap, because I read three pages or watch ten minutes of something before realizing that I need to add a few items to my hospital bag or clean out a shelf to make room for bibs. It feels endless and mind-numbing to be where I am (or, I’m sure, to hang out with me).
So pardon me, I’m sure I’ll be a person again someday, but for now I’m off to drink my raspberry leaf tea, take a two-mile walk, have lustless sex, and then go get some acupuncture in hopes of naturally inducing labor.