I have a C-section scheduled for Monday. This Monday. Like less than four days from now. Where they’re going to cut me open and hand me the baby that lives inside of me. You can read all about how this all came to pass on Andy’s fancy new blog, Cool Dad Aloha Shirt. You should read his blog anyway, but the short version of the story is that we had another ultrasound a little over a week ago (just past the 37 week mark), and the kid was already measuring at 9 lbs. Since I neither want to die nor to have my impressively large newborn featured on the local news (“Area Woman has Giant-Ass Baby and Somehow Doesn’t Die”), we decided this would be the best way to move forward.
As such, my last prenatal appointment was yesterday morning. It was quite brief. They had me pee into a cup, weighed me, took my blood pressure and listened to the fetal heartbeat, as usual. All that stuff was good. The doctor checked to see if I was dilated, which I was not at all. We went over the major risks of having a Caesarian, like someone accidentally cutting my spleen in half or leaving their car keys in me, but it all sounded better and less risky than waiting to see how big the baby could get on his own and then trying to push him out of my vagina. (And inevitably having that not work and then doing an emergency C-section anyway.) I asked a couple of questions about recovery, the doctor answered them, and then said, “Okay, so I’ll see you Monday morning and you’ll have a baby!” And I responded with a bit of panic. Was she sure there wasn’t more stuff she needed to tell me? How can it be possible that the next step on my baby prep list is “have baby?”
The nursery is ready to go; I’ve read all of the pregnancy books and a good amount about how to calm down your screaming infant (by simultaneously reading two books that completely contradict each other, which might not be helpful); we’ve got the house as clean as it’s reasonably going to get (because there’s no way I’m going to defeat Laundry Mountain at this point); the cats have been briefed; I finished up or handed off all my projects at work; and we think we’ve got baby names down to a Final Four (to be narrowed further when we see what the kid looks like). There’s kind of nothing else to do, except to try to get some sleep and to keep an eye on the Fetus Pal’s kicks to make sure he’s still thriving in the womb. Oh, and I do pre-op blood work tomorrow at the hospital, but I feel like that’s just a sub-step of “have baby.”
I do have some more exciting anecdotes and words of non-wisdom that I’d like to share with you, my loyal readers; if I can step away from my busy fretting and sleeping schedule, I may be able to write some more of these up before go-time. But in honesty, fretting and sleeping have kind of been my whole thing lately. I have secured some kind of hipster mother domain name for once the baby is born, so that the web-based adventures can continue. I’ve completely forgotten what the domain is called, but I can look into this. You’ll still be able to go to http://www.hipsterpregnancy.com for all your web-based adventures though, and it will take you to whatever the new website will be.
One thing is for certain: My ankles are definitely ready for me to get this kid out of my body. This one’s for you, ankles.