The Pregnant Life: The Baby Dropped ... Which Means Nothing

Week 36
Yeah. That's big. And low.
What. The heck. Is going. On. I’m one day away from Week 36 and I suddenly feel like a ton of bricks has landed in my groin, and not in a good way. (I’m sure there must be some instances where that’d be a good thing. Look, I’m not thinking very clearly at the moment.) Also, my husband reports that I look different -- my belly's shape has changed.
Seems to me that the baby has dropped, but what that means sort of evades me.


The women in my local second-moms group just said, “Oh, you’ll know when it happens.” But nobody has anything specific to say about what it signifies -- what happens next. I guess that’s because it doesn’t really signify much of anything. According to my answers to a Facebook/Twitter query -- as well as a quick trip around the Internets -- it just means “yep, that baby’s going to come out of you at some point. Could be today. Could be in a month. Have fun walking around like a penguin.”
At least I have my office back, which means I have my bouncy-ball chair back. The stepkids were here for a week, and it was outstanding, full of hilarity and a happy, busy toddler. But their room is also my office, so I was working at the kitchen table, which meant everything took 10 times longer than it had to because I had to take frequent breaks to look at the same goddamn video of Koko signing "butterfly" or Ernie and Bert singing about the letter L. The bouncy-ball chair is key. I think the edges of the kitchen chairs were messing with my circulation and making my feet puffier. I didn’t realize they could be any puffier. But there you are.
Anyway: I feel pressure, some burning, and more pain than I was complaining about last time. Last night I was trying to get the right pillow/leg setup for the longest time, and I finally just dissolved into tears, which I quickly banished because I didn’t need my husband sensing my pathetic inability to deal. I’m feeling unbelievably inadequate and underachieving and am just embarrassed that when the time comes to, oh, lift my leg to adjust the pillow, I have to actually grab my pajamas and use them as some sort of medieval winch, because my leg acts like it just didn’t hear me. HEAR ME, LEG.
Besides, the 20-minute contraction that had me panting and Lamaze breathing at 3 a.m. woke him up anyway. I forgot how much that shit hurts.
And poor Penelope is tired of my whining, too. I tried to have a super-fun day with her yesterday, going to the museum for music time and then out to lunch with our pals, and it was just sad. My friend had to keep running after her because I’d be going, “Penelope!” and she’d take that as an invitation to run full-tilt toward a set of escalators. When it was time to go back to the car, it was all “Uppy! UPPY!” and, you know, we were in a parking garage, so it’s not like I could be all Montessori-tough about it. Up she went, and by the time we got home, I wanted to be carried up the stairs myself.
Thank goodness for my New Jersey connections. “I remember, more than once, setting my toddler in front of the TV when I was 9 months pregnant and waking up with drool on my chin,” the first one told me. “Please note: the few months of crappy mommying are completely offset by the fact that you’re providing a sibling,” the other added. “It’s 10 years later, and my kids don’t even want to know from me this summer. They only want each other.”
Much as I love being the center of P’s world, those words strike a chord of relief in my heart. Pregnancy = the fountain of youth? My ass!


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