Normally I'd be out on my morning run around this time, but not today. The notsosmall reason why is sitting with his head in my ribs.
I'd never given much thought to the possibility of him camping out in the breech position, because apparently it's pretty uncommon.
Which, um, hello?
Is exactly why I should have assumed it would happen to me.
Lately we've had the most beautiful weather and I've been outside a lot, walking and running and blasting the Ipod to National Public Radio.
You know. Happy stuff.
But other stuff, too.
Like contractions. Loads of contractions.
I pretty much do my best to ignore and run through them, because I so prefer a pretty day out and about to (yet another) private pukefest, and moving seems to limit the nausea.
Not only that, but I figured if I somehow threw myself into early labor whilst listening to Diane Rehm, well, then that would be a bonus.
Can you believe I just wrote that out loud?
What kind of heinous mother am I???
More shocking, though, is that my sixty inch frame has not spontaneously burst into a ball of flames or split right down the middle like a cracking egg. I don't expect you to understand how tight things are getting around here, but torso real estate has been extremely limited for months now, which explains why my stomach has recently reached the far Western regions of the Pacific Standard Time Zone.
THERE IS NO MORE ROOM AT THE INN.
On the flip side, after discovering the whole breech thing the other day, I found myself thanking my lucky stars that these have only been practice rounds and not The Big Show. The doctor explained all of the risks and concerns and percentages of carrying breech at this point ...yada, yada, yada... which I hadn't even bothered reading about in the baby books, because the chances of it happening to us were, like, nil. Basically, we won the lotto. If the lotto was an upside down cake in the form of a fetus. With man parts. Anyway. He told me that this is a game changer, and that should I go into labor, I need to ixnay my original plan of watching Jersey Shore reruns for six or seven hours before going to the hospital. Not even six or seven minutes, not even the opening where JWoww talks about ripping heads off of the men that she sleeps with.
Hospital. Pronto. Period.
I'm still processing what this means, but it's put the scare in me. I mean, I'm continuing to live my life, working out full speed ahead and moving forward with plans to The Lake House, but I'm much more cautious, and more than a little nervous. Andrew is too, and he now insists on being by my side for ev.e.ry.thing. from running to taking out the garbage to Ohmygod, that was a contraction wasn't it? Are you okay? Can you hear me? Is there a foot hanging out?!
No, honey, I just had to burp.
Pregnancy is beautiful.