Words to Live By

Today is my due date, but LOOL has yet to grace us with his or her presence. While somewhat disappointed, I can't say I am altogether surprised, given that I know perfectly well that the majority of first babies are late. Also, although my midwives have consistently maintained the August 26th due date, I always suspected that it would be a bit later, since my cycles were generally a few days longer than the typical 28, and I ovulated late. I know this because, being mildly OCD, I was faithfully clocking my temperature every morning on a basal thermometer during our baby-makin' days, so yes, I know exactly when I ovulated (day 19, if you must know). By those calculations, our baby could actually be due on August 30th or so. I am very much hoping that I am wrong.

"Any day now" was the official consensus at my midwife's appointment this morning. She gave me a quick exam to assure that my water hadn't been leaking - I was paranoid because quite frankly, it's like Niagara Falls down there these days. That's right, non-moms - nobody tells you that pleasant tidbit about the last trimester of pregnancy, so get ready. Just when you can't feel any more atttractive, the strange leaking fluids are truly lovely.

The midwife also seemed quite pleased when I proudly reported that I'd lost my mucus plug this morning (and no, I will NOT apologize for blogging about my damn mucus plug, so if you have a problem, shove it). There I was, in a pantsless, sleepy haze, having just gotten out of bed and wandered into the bathroom. I sneezed, and suddenly had the bizarre sensation that can best be summarized as "what the hell just fell out of my body??" I looked down and there it was, hangin' out on the tile floor. Gross, yet strangely fascinating.

I was also informed that the baby has dropped and that his/her little head is happily nestled very, very low in my pelvis. Today's midwife (remember that they vary from visit to visit) said that these were all sure signs that labor was imminent, and I'd really love to believe that. However, I know many women who have lost their plugs and gone on to deliver over a week later, and those whose babies dropped weeks prior to d-day. Ultimately, this all proves a whole lot of nothing, but in my current state of total baby fever I'll believe anything.

My aunt treated me to lunch today. She met me at our place and we plodded (well, I plodded - she walked like a normal, non-extra-29-pounds-carrying-person) over to one of my favorite restaurants. I ordered the turkey burger and inquired if the aged cheddar cheese on top was pasteurized. The waitress assured me that it definitely was.

My burger arrived, delicious and meaty and cheesy, and I gobbled it down. However, despite its tastiness I soon found myself once again gripped by my most crippling pregnancy paranoia, which is that ALL SERVERS ARE TRYING TO KILL MY BABY.

Sure, they SAY the cheese is pasteurized, but I ask you, how can I be sure? How do I know it isn't actually UNpasteurized, listeria-containing evil, the kind that dutiful preggos must avoid at all costs? Yes, I could force them to bring out the package and show me the label, but that's just an easy way to 1) prove my craziness and 2) ensure that my food gets spit in.

Thoughts like these have driven me to a near-frenzy during every cheese-containing restaurant meal I have consumed over the course of my pregnancy. My poor, patient husband assures me each and every time that no, the waiter does not want to kill our child, and yes, I need to learn to trust people, yet still I worry. I realize my fears are irrational and unfounded, and that even if I did eat a small amount of unpasteurized cheese, our baby would almost certainly be fine. After all, I have a friend who scoffed in the face of all the pregnancy no-nos during her own child's gestation, gobbling sushi, flagrant amounts of brie, goat and blue cheese, and downing the occasional glass of wine. "I'm Greek!" she said. "This is how they do it over there, and their babies are fine!" I envied her peace of mind and glass of merlot.

Much earlier in my pregnancy, I was relaying my insanity to a friend, and she said something that struck me as quite profound in my hormone-induced delirium.

"Paige, crackheads have perfectly healthy babies every day. Crackheads."

So my friends, I tell you this - if you are pregnant, or plan to one day become pregnant, heed my advice and don't lose your mind with worry like yours truly.
Remember the crackheads.

With that, I ask you to please send labor-y thoughts my way. I am now going to attempt accupressure, practice nipple stimulation, and walk up and down some stairs.

Move it along, you little squatter. This uterus is a no-loitering zone.