It's my due date, and I'll cry if I want to.
Outdoorsman insists that I was just as miserable the last two pregnancies in the ninth month as this one, but I really have a hard time believing that if I was this uncomfortable that I would go ahead and do it all again. Wow. The mind is a really amazing thing, to forget something like this. To perpetuate the species? Or just to add to my collection of stretch marks? We will never know.
There has also been decreased activity in the normally active little resident of Hotel des D. So I pulled out my dog-eared copy of What To Expect When You are Expecting, and was referenced to two pages. Page 314 read cheerfully, do not fear! The head must be engaged! All is well!
My heart lighter, I turned to page 516. Or, of course, the book continues, the cord could be wrapped around the neck of the baby. This could be fatal. And all different sorts of bad. So freak out and run to the doctor.
Instantly, I developed a split personality from the trauma. Then I made an appointment to get monitered. They gave me a quart of sugar water and the movements picked up ever so slightly. The doctor made a face but said that it was okay.
The second I got home, the baby started moving. And hasn't stopped since. Which means the baby is playing with my head. Which does not bode well for when he actually decides to emerge.
Which, by the way, baby? Ready when you are.