Thanks for the sock assist, kid. Randy and I had a date-day on Sunday, as we kicked off Week 31, thanks to a thoughtful friend who invited Penelope for a play-date and sent us out to see Ironman 2. I seriously hadn't been alone with him, outside the house, during the day, since ... hum. Well, I guess since our CVS test, very romantic!
It was a great date. Well, after the first half hour, during which we took turns panicking because we didn't know who had Penelope. "I thought she was with you! Oh wait." "Where's the diaper bag? Oh right." Eventually we calmed down, enjoyed the movie, and even sat down for a bit of (cooked) sushi afterward.
I made it a point to thank my husband for stepping up so beautifully to do most of the running around with Penelope. We both have work schedules that are, shall we say, flexible -- we're both underemployed -- and even when I'm not working, I often have to cut into his computer time because I just can't handle how overtired I get. I feel extremely inadequate, especially when I see moms like the one at the store today who was two weeks away from her due date and didn't even break a sweat.
I'm telling you, I almost got homicidal when I finally made it to the library a block away, plodded down to the toddler/board-book reading room, and found two teens making out in the comfy chairs. Whah Tuh Fuh!! I perched my hot-air-balloon self on a teeny chair and glared till I thought my eyes were getting rusty (the daggers, tear ducts, and all), but to no avail. I'm becoming cranky old lady. It's really sad.
So yeah, even getting P's shoes on makes me want to lay down and count bathroom tiles with the side of my face. Now, part of that is for a great reason -- my blood pressure keeps dropping. I know, weird, right? This was not the case last time. (And my feet still look like balloon animals -- see pic above.) So I actually feel quite lightheaded and distracted. God, I'm trying to find the right joke here -- something about suddenly bleaching my hair blonde? Dating Hugh Hefner? Gah, no, my funny bone must be pregnant too.
Anyway, date over, we rushed to get Penelope and found she was having a great time, though she'd tried to refuse to nap in favor of hanging out with the big kids. Who wouldn't? Then, as we drove away (and she hollered at us for having abandoned her, despite her clearly having had the time of her life), I suddenly needed to know, "Did we connect enough? Did we really talk? Should we have just sat and talked instead of going to a movie? Did we just waste the whole date?!" Randy swears we connected. So okay.
And here's a great thing to hear from your doctor: "You know I’m very conservative and worried, but I'm not worried about you." So yay! Of course my next question was: "So I can have sex?" and her forehead wrinkled. "Just wait four more weeks? Six if you can?"
Good god, people. In four more weeks I won't even have a vagina. It'll feel like a smushed tin can. Can that be hot? I'm guessing it can, if we're desperate enough. I just don't have the cojones (ovarios?) to sneak around behind my doctor's back. My husband is a saint.
In other news, I agreed to be part of a study that tests the vaginal bacteria of women who've had pre-term labor to see if they have anything different going on that might tip doctors off to possible risk factors. Anything to keep another woman from ending up padding around the NICU trying to breastfeed a plastic box.
My next few appointments are all about getting to know the midwives in my doctor's practice, not to mention the other doctors. Mine just doesn't foresee any issues, which of course freaks me out. The thing people say about my hospital is that because it's a teaching hospital, they're at their best in a crisis. So if I'm not in a crisis, will they pay enough attention to me? Will I get my epidural in time? Will I deliver in the hallway? Oh, I think my blood pressure just went back up! "The sum of the square roots of any two sides of an isosceles triangle is equal to the square root of the remaining side. Oh joy! Rapture! I got a brain!"*
Speaking of the epidural, there's a two-hour epidural class I can take. I am so totally doing that, if only to shut up my natural-childbirth-is-the-only-way hippie friends. One of them (okay, more of an acquaintance) said, just today, that she'd never have one because "I don't want my baby born blue and on drugs." On drugs! Holy hamburgers. So yeah, that's going to be two hours well spent.
See you next time, kids.
*the scarecrow, stupid