The End is (Not So) Near...

Dear Stubborn-Ass Child:

Hmm... I guess with two already on the ground, and one on the way, that is no way to address a letter. To be more specific: Dear Stubborn-Ass Unborn Child.  That's right, Baby Ford #3, I'm talking to you!  You are my third (and final!) child.  You are supposed to be laid back, easy going, and listen to every single word I say.  You are not supposed to be difficult, stubborn, or even the least bit competitive.  Yet, I am very afraid that is what is happening...

I am, apparently, a baby-making perfectionist.  My lovely first child was 11 days late.  Due on the 11th of January, born on the 22nd.  My beautiful second child was 9 days late.  Due on the 11th of July, born on the 20th.  My third handsome baby is also due on the 11th... born on the... well, that remains to be seen.  Ideally, I was aiming for right around the 11th.  Or maybe even earlier!  My ideals are being tested.

I went for my 37-week check-up last week.  My family doctor was very excited to examine me, since by that stage in pregnancy, her patients have all been shipped off to obstetricians.  She very eagerly wanted to check my "progress" since I was 37 weeks with my third child and his head was "oh, so low!"  She was pretty convinced she was going to tell me I was 3 cms dilated, or some other "the time is coming soon" sort of news.  She let out a little "hmmpph," and said, "well, he's not nearly as low as I thought, and you haven't thinned or dilated even a milimetre!"  Oh well, still lots of time!

Fast forward a week, to today.  I'm back to see my regular obstetrician who gives the bottom of my belly a squeeze to make sure that baby is still head down.  He is.  Then doctor gives a little laugh, and says, "wow, for 38 weeks, he sure isn't very low, is he?"  Yeah, I get it.  The fact that I have had to literally push tiny little feet out from under my rib cage, and push back when his little bum starts to wiggle high enough that my boobs fit nicely under my chin, has led me to the conclusion that this stubborn-ass little child is quite content to wiggle and squirm as high as possible in my tummy.  Unfortunately, without the "bowling ball about to fall out of your vajayjay" pressure that comes when a baby decides to settle in for the last week or so, not much progress will be made in the thinning and dilation departments.  My ribs, however, will never be the same again, and the extremely attractive belching that comes when your food only has a few centimetres to travel before it stops, will continue.   Hooray!  

Of course, as Danny reminded me on the phone today as I was cursing out our little unborn human, anything is possible.  This stubborn-ass little man may also decide to be spontaneous, and decide it's time to be born tonight.  However, with a history of stubborn-assness running in my children's genes, I am not hopeful.

The bright side... more time to get ready.  Except that I've been off work for 10 weeks, and am actually quite close to being ready (especially since my mommy arrives tonight and plans to finish up the last of the crap that I am to exhausted to do myself).  I should pack a bag, of course, and maybe buy some diapers (I've been enjoying our diaper-free house), but that's all stuff that can be done at the last second, anyway!  

There's also the other bright side.  Potentially 3 more weeks of "wow, you're huge, when are you due?" and "looks like baby has really dropped!" and "aren't you ready to have that baby now?"  The answers to those questions, socially speaking, are *smile* "any day now," "he sure has!" and "uh-huh, am I ever!!"  The answers to those questions in my hormone-filled, sleep-lacking, baby-has-his-feet-in-my-ribs-again, oh my God when will this be over, mind, are "I'm not that freaking huge, I'm smaller than my last two, but thank you very much for pointing out my waddle," and "apparently this baby has not dropped, but I'm so glad you're an expert on the distance between this child's head and my vagina," and "Yes, I'm freaking ready.  I've been ready ever since I stopped being able to put on my own socks, eat a full meal, or sleep through the night.  Except that this stubborn-ass child didn't get that freaking message and is taking his sweet ass time!"

Of course, on the other other bright side... once this sweet little man does decide to make his entrance, there's no going back.  We will officially be parents to three.  So what's an extra week or two of waiting?  Patience, after all, is a virtue! :)

The truth about "Being Excited"...

I'm 36 weeks (and then-some) pregnant.  I'm super fat now and the belly cannot be hidden.  It causes people I don't even know to be super excited for me.  Like, super excited.  I'm not quite sure what it is about a pregnant woman that sends everyone around her into fits of happiness, but apparently a big, fat, baby belly will do that to people.

A baby belly has caused many a person to do crazy things... read here for my experiences the last time I was knocked up.  This time, I'm experiencing something a little different.  I have yet to have a stranger touch me, but it seems allllll the strangers want to know how excited I am.  I walk through the grocery store, and inevitably, someone will stop me with all the usual questions:

Stranger:  "Oh my goodness, look at you!  Expecting a little one, are you?"
Me: "Yup, sure am!" (Force smile)
Stranger: "Wow, you must be due any minute!"
Me: "Well, still have a few weeks to go yet!" (Thanks, for noticing how fat I am)
Stranger: "You must be getting excited?" or "Are you excited?"
Me: "Uh-huh!"
Stranger: "Oh, how sweet your life will be once that little baby joins your world!"
Me: "So true, so true." (Fake smile, wave, walk away)

It's an innocent enough little conversation.  Except when I'm out in public I seem to have it over, and over, and over again.  I went shopping in Halifax with a girlfriend the other day, and even she commented on how many people stopped to question me.  It's not that I'm an unfriendly person... I swear, for the most part, I am quite fond of the human race.  Except, as people keep pointing out, I'm big, I'm tired, I can't reach my own toes, and I'm freaking tired of all the questions!  Especially the last one... "are you excited?"  Excited?  Excited?!?  Let's see shall we...

I was in line at the grocery store the other day, and the clerk just began ringing in my groceries.  For some reason, Danny was not with me, but the girls were.  Ella was in the cart, Gracie was standing beside me.  The checkout clerk was carrying on the usual conversation with me.  I smiled politely, and nodded at all the right times.  In the meantime, Ella was grunting because I told her she couldn't eat the snacks I had just bought right this second.  Gracie was saying, "Mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy."  I dropped my wallet.  When I stood up, Ella had one hand in a grocery bag, popping grapes into her mouth.  I told her not to touch the grapes, and she started crying.  Gracie said, "Mommy, can I have a treat?  I want a treat.  Last time you got me a treat cause you were nice.  Why can't I have a treat this time?  I just want a treat?" I told Ella to stop crying, and she screams at me.  Gracie tells Ella to stop crying, and since Ella hates to be told anything by Gracie, she screams "NOOOOOOOOOOO!" at Gracie at the top of her lungs.  "How much longer do you have, dear?" the cashier asks.  Gracie cries, "Mommy, Ella's not being nice to me!" and I scold Ella, "Ella, be nice!" and the same time, answering the cashier. "Oh, a few weeks," I say.  Gracie steps in front of Ella, who deliberately kicks her in the head from her position in the shopping cart. Gracie starts crying, and Ella starts laughing.   I rub Gracie's forehead and start to discipline Ella when I hear it, "You must be so excited." The cashier smiles at me. I stare at her with a look that I'm quite sure conveys that I think she must be out of her ever-loving mind, as Gracie screams and yells about Ella kicking her and Ella cries because Gracie has now hit her back.  My mouth kind of gapes open for a second, as I stare at her, and I struggle to answer her.  The kids are now both screaming and Gracie has dropped to her knees at the end of the aisle in her usual dramatic fashion.  "Oh yes," I say.  "So excited."

Don't get me wrong.  We planned this baby.  We want this baby.  But dealing with catastrophic meltdowns in the grocery store is fairly easy right now, because I have two hands, and two kids. For now, one of the three is safely contained... inside my belly.  He has no choice but to go where I go, and do what I do.  Soon, that beautiful little boy will be here, and the only thing I will have control over is which boob to offer him as a sacrifice when he screams at me. In a matter of weeks, I will still only have two hands.  But I will have three kids.  That scene at the grocery store will replay, except this time, Baby Boy Ford will also be in that cart, and he will be covered in a poop from a blow-out diaper, and screaming at the top of his lungs.

Of course, two years from now, Gracie will be even bigger than she is now.  She will be even more helpful and caring and considerate.  Ella will be growing into a little lady, and will have learned manners by then (or at least how to fake them!).  Baby Boy will be walking, talking, and will no longer scream at the top of his lungs when he needs something because he will have learned how to communicate.  The kids will be sleeping through the night, all of them, and Gracie will know how to pour bowls of cereal and turn on the TV on Saturday mornings.  Now that is exciting!

But the God's-honest truth of the matter is simple math.  Right now, there is Danny and me, and Gracie and Ella.  We're even.  In a month or so, there will be Danny and me, and Gracie and Ella and Baby #3.We are going to be outnumbered.  I know we will still technically be bigger and stronger.  But soon enough, these children will realize that they out-number us.  They will find a way to use it to their advantage.  They will team up. They will wear us down.  And they will win.  We will be weak, and overpowered, and exhausted.  We will rue the day we decided to have three of these little creatures.  Our friends will find us, after noticing we have been missing for a few days, collapsed on our living room floor, as our three children dance around us, their faces painted with war paint, candy, and chocolate sauce.  Giggle-bellies will be playing over, and over, and over again in the background in an effort to drive us completely crazy, and there will be a lego fortress built in the corner of the living room, where the children will have their tribal meetings while deciding our fate.  They will leave individual legos scattered across the floor for us to step on, to thwart any attempts at escape.  This is our future, as the parents of three children, I am quite sure of it.  And the truth is, I am terribly excited! :)