This morning I had my 35 week ultrasound to make sure the baby is growing properly and help determine a date for the c-section.
I had an inkling this little fella (or whatever the female variation of fella is… fanny?) was on the larger side, mainly due to the sensation of a combine harvester crushing my spinal discs together every time I attempt to walk, get up off the floor or make a desperate and panicked leap into oncoming traffic.
Oh, and there’s also this… The Stomach That Stops People Dead in Their Tracks and Elicits Comments Everywhere We Go:
Weighing in at 8 pounds, measuring 40 1/2 weeks and femur bones that are off the chart, its interests include: insulin shots, writing pointed letters to airline management for insisting it buy two seats on a flight to Orlando and licking mayonnaise off the game controller while simultaneously defeating its own World of Warcraft high score.
For the first time since I found out I was pregnant I was thanking God that this baby isn’t coming out my business end.
Of course my relief was quickly replaced by concern for the baby’s health, and this afternoon as I washed down my McDonald’s #1 with a chocolate milk shake I wondered if there was something I could have done differently to put this baby in a healthier weight class.
After finishing off last night’s leftover mashed potatoes I decided probably not, and I shouldn’t be stressing myself out with such thoughts.
I saw the nurse practitioner after my appointment, who will share my chart with J.T. and we’ll get a date scheduled next week. All she said, after a sympathetic laugh, was that I’m definitely not making it to my due date.
At this rate I don’t even know if I’ll make it to tonight. I think I can feel this thing scratching at my tonsils with its toenails.