Sometimes I hate that word. It’s like what you associate with musicians or athletes who accept some kind of win and invoke the name of a higher power as responsible. Maybe I have just seen Religulous too recently.
But I have no other word at my disposal (because my SATs were good but not that good) to describe the way I feel right now. Which may sound surprising since at the same time I think I am also reaching out a bit for some good new-fashioned cyber-support.
For weeks, months really, Bryan and I have been told that we are having a gigantic baby. I use that adjective somewhat in jest but the truth is: this is a BIG baby. Sometimes ultrasound/scan technicians and doctors get measurements and weights wrong. But we have had too many people say the same thing.
Interlude: I hesitated to start writing this post at all as I have always tried hard to not make this a blog about my pregnancy. I decided that for several reasons having to do with myself and the people I know who read it. Frankly, I thought it would be boring, self-obsessed (which is so counter to blogging, natch), tedious and also insensitive to some of my loved ones working so hard to get pregnant. Sure I have made little jokes and revealed myself in photos (hard to avoid the bump)… but I guess a source of pride for me is that I never posted an ultrasound pic. Although, they are cute. But it feels like a boundary. I know, even I have them.
So back to the Big Baby. As of yesterday, a little under two weeks from my due date, the baby weighed 8lbs 14oz. That is over a pound more than the average baby at birth and it’s only going to gain at least another pound or more. Every measurement of its head, limbs, length, weight is 95th percentile. The amusing part in all of it is how people are constantly telling me how small I am. Which, by g-d, I have been damn happy about. And humble. And not so humble. I didn’t gain an ounce anywhere else. Is this irony? I don’t know. I never really grasped the meaning of the word.
And now for the short version. Because of the size of the baby, the size of its head, the state of the head not being “fixed”, the number of weeks I am (38+), the substantial unlikeliness of the head ever engaging, and the state of my cervix (sorry, guys)- we are looking at an almost certain likelihood of a Cesarean.
Like millions of women, I have moments where I can’t wrap my brain around the idea. I thought I too would be pacing, using the yoga ball, in a bath, yelling obscenities at Bryan, crying, living the tale that I could tell for decades (“I was in labor with you for 72 hours you little ingrate…”). Even the prologue was mapped out in my head. Girl is strolling down sunny charming London street and suddenly her water breaks. Girl phones husband. Husband rushes out of work with pats on the back and well wishes coming from every cubicle. Husband tells cab driver to “step on it” while barely containing a huge smile. You can write the ending.
In all of this my brain quickly flashes out of the momentary funks I find myself sliding into. And I have a deep appreciation for all my luck thus far- from the significant to the shallow. I will maintain some trace amount of superstition and not list examples. But my self-pity is so fleeting you could almost miss it. And that is a blessing in itself.
Postscript: last night I reached out to a handful of new mom friends. I knew they would be a source of comfort or at least have some kind of first-hand advice. Instead, they were a source of comfort, comic relief, pleasant surprises and they have given me much to think about and perhaps a new frame of mind. Another reminder among billions of reminders hurling through all space and time why to invest in good friends.