Today marks 37 weeks’ pregnant. That means we’re 3 weeks away from our due date. The nursery’s done (save a few minor adjustments), our birth plan is written, and according to medical wisdom, this baby is all but ready to come out. Tomorrow we head to the doctor for the first of our weekly visits, so that the doctor can take a guess at how close we are to going into labor. Apparently it’s not terribly scientific. I could be dilated and effaced tomorrow and not give birth for several weeks. Or I could be closed up like a drum tomorrow and have the baby Tuesday.
People ask if I’m afraid of labor, and while I’m not naive enough to think that I’d like to make a habit of giving birth, I’m not really afraid. I have a relatively high tolerance for pain; I enjoy being tattooed and have survived a pretty severe bout of meningitis, not to mention 5 seasons of Jersey Shore, so that’s got to say something about my general resolve. I figure my body was meant to do this, so all I need to do is trick my mind into going out for coffee for several hours and hopefully it will be over before I know it. Please don’t write to tell me how wrong I am about that theory. I’m holding onto it for all it’s worth these days.
Now that the preparation is as finished as it’s going to be, there’s nothing left but to wait. Not knowing the gender has been difficult. We made the decision early in the process to let it be a surprise, and there are definitely times when I’ve wished we could just ask my belly and get the answer. But because of the extra anticipation of not knowing what the baby will look like nor whether it will be a boy or girl, it’s giving me something to take my mind off the idea of passing a watermelon. All I can see is a picture of MKL and me holding our sweet little monkey, and finally putting a face to all the kicks and the months…years, really…of anticipation.