Welp. I'm sixteen days away from my due date. I've been told not to get too attached to any one date, but I can't help it. I'm hopelessly attached.
My doctor, who is famous for being a cervix-reader, has told me that I'll go early.
Doc then proceeded to take a week-long vacation in the Bahamas and told me "not to have the baby while he was gone." Oh, sure. No big deal. I'll just cross my legs. My doula and my pediatrician are also out of town this week. Who do these hard-working professionals think they are taking their hard-earned vacations over a holiday week without consulting me first? Downright selfish, I'll tell ya that much.
Not to worry, I have a feeling baby Baker is liking it in there. He's probably sensing all of these crazy storms and power outages and thinking,
You are out of your ever-loving mind if you think I'm coming out of here before those kinks are worked out.
I could also use a good pedicure and a leg-shaving one last time before I never get those luxuries again, so waiting until the doula/doctor/pediatrician triumvirate is back in town is good with me. The pedicure part is a treat. The leg-shaving is a chore at this point. I dread it. I have to hold my breath while I bend over the monster-man-child-belly-mountain to get to my ankles. It's not pretty. I lock the bathroom door so N. doesn't walk in and see the struggle.
This pregnancy has been a beautiful lesson on vanity and humility and loss of control. I shall blog about that another time.
For now, Turk is whining to go outside. He's enjoying his last few days of being our only child by going to concerts with us and talking us into getting him a jr cheeseburger when we go through the Wendy's drive-thru.