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Oct 15 2012

Inside the Mind of a Pregnant Woman Four Days Past Her Due Date

By at 4:19 pm
cirque du soleil acrobats

Cirque du Soleil acrobat, I am not.

The insanity only begins when you no longer recognize it as insanity. That’s the fundamental truth of parenting. And you’d think I’d know it by now. But no. It’s only with a few hours remove that I can look back at myself last night, sitting up in bed at 3 a.m., frantically Googling “leaking amniotic fluid” (note: there is no sign that I am doing anything other than “peeing like a racehorse,” as pregnant women with bladders the sizes of raisins tend to do) and think, GET A FREAKING GRIP.

Insanity, start your engines.

So as you’re aware, I was supposed to have this baby last Thursday. “Estimated due date,” my big pregnant ass.

“You’re STILL HERE?”–that’s a quote from basically Everyone On The Planet. Yes, that’s right–I am still here. I’m here performing a humanitarian mission, testing the capacity of innocent elastic waistbands of maternity pants worldwide.

Yes, random lady, you SHOULD have given me the aisle seat at the movie Saturday night. Yes, other random lady, when that guy at the supermarket took out a shopping cart to give it to someone, he was trying to give it to ME, a 10-month pregnant woman holding my 15-month-old baby, not you and your “look at me, I recycle!” Trader Joe bags.

As this random agita would evidence, all this anticipation is making me kind of nuts. I am nervous as could be. I snap at my kids (“NO, YOU CANNOT HAVE A PLAYDATE AND INVITE THREE FRIENDS OVER! WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? I AM ABOUT TO HAVE A BABY, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! IT COULD HAPPEN ANY SECOND!”). I don’t even want to log onto Facebook, normally a favorite procrastinatory vice (“Any news?” “friends” post on my Timeline. AAAAARGH!).

My doctor tells me that sex can get this thing started. Well, that would be great, lady, if my husband or I were contortionists in Cirque du Soleil, or maybe if he were some sort of mountain climber equipped with carabiners. I mean, I’m sure he still thinks I’m Bar Rafaeli-levels erotic and all. Because who wouldn’t feel that way about a woman wearing a bra that could also be a pair of hats for Siamese twins?

I wake up at night from dreams of being buried alive (relaxing!) or trapped in an elevator while 10 months pregnant. At 3 a.m., I get out the Google, because as any moonlighting hypochondriac would know, nothing nourishes neuroses quite like Google.

“Don’t turn on the computer,” I tell myself as I turn on the computer, my husband happily snoring next to me. “You should be using this time to sleep, not to Google random problems.”

I Google. I make myself sick with worry. I cry into my pillow. I don’t wake my husband up because he will think I am crazy. And he will be right.

This morning, I called my doctor. For fun, she had me come in. She hooked me up to the fetal monitor. Everything was fine, with the baby remaining blissfully sheltered from her mother’s madness. I had an exam that made me feel like I was auditioning for the part of a human hand puppet (too much detail?). All is well. The baby will be born eventually.

And those deep breaths you’re supposed to take while you’re in labor? Maybe I’ll start doing them now…it can’t hurt.


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