34

THIRTY. FOUR.

I don't even know what to say. November is about gratitude and man do I have it. It's still too early.. this baby deserves as much time to grow and develop as possible- but this was the point my OB was really hoping for. "Every day past 34 is gravy." were her words. When things went kinda haywire at 26, I really don't think she thought we'd see this day, but here we are.

At this point, if the baby came, there's a possibility s/he could come home with us. Not necessarily, hell, things go sideways even with termies, I am keenly aware of that. But it's a possibility. Which is amazing to me.

I'm still nervous about the baby coming early, but things like worries about nursing and handling two kids and surviving those beginning months of exhaustion are starting to top my list. I mean, I'm also dreading c-section pain and magnesium sulfate (which I'm *probably* going to have to have, if not before delivery, then afterward) and things that come with my own situation, but it's part of a bigger picture now.

We're still settling on names. It will be Charlotte or Elliot, but middle names weren't as easily decided. David has the most exhaustive list of exclusions that you can imagine. Sometimes his history-nerdiness is more annoying than others. If the history of a particular name doesn't suit him, or honors some long-lost King I've never heard of that he doesn't like, then it's out. And then he spends so much time making up stupid names to be "funny" that sometimes I want to throttle him. We'll figure it out, though.

We didn't decide on Robbie's name until the delivery room. There is a lot of gray haziness about his birth, but I remember someone (the NICU director, I think) asking "Do we have a name?" and David standing up quietly, looking at Robbie (whom I hadn't seen yet) and declaring "Robert Michael." It was the name he'd wanted to start with, but I wasn't sure and finally we agreed to figure it out when we saw him. He could have been Gregory Michael instead. That seems weird now.

Robbie still doesn't seem to get the concept of brotherhood. We've explained about the baby over and over again, and asked him if he wants a brother or sister. He'll tell you a sister. Until you ask if he wants a sister or brother, and then he wants a brother. He always picks the second choice. I'm told that's some sort of human nature quirk. We're more likely to pick the last choice.

Tonight, however, David asked him if he was going to have a sister or brother and he said very resoundingly, "A SISTER!" That surprised us since it hadn't been the 2nd option and he seemed so sure. Then David asked what his sister's name would be. Robbie grinned and replied, "Ummmm.. FLUFFY CAT!" and then fell down laughing at himself. David and I just rolled. We have a long-haired cat that both David and Robbie call fluffy. Maybe he wants a clone of her. They are pretty good buddies. I don't know if something has finally clicked in Robbie's brain to get what a brother or sister is, but it was an adorable moment. But this baby still better not have whiskers.

I still don't know which way I lean. I say "she" mostly, but I did the same with Robbie and you see how that turned out. I've got both boy and girl newborn clothes ready for the hospital just in case. Buying the girl stuff sure was fun. There are so many more choices for girls. But brothers would be so cute, too. And we already have so much boy stuff. In the end, I really am okay either way. And that's not just politically correct "we just want a healthy baby" talk.

I'm feeling well, really. My blood pressure has still been cooperative. I'm miserable in only the usual ways. The baby presses on my lungs and I can't breathe, or presses on my bladder and I pee 120 times a day. My back and my pelvis both ache. I am not sleeping well at all. I'm still getting morning sickness occasionally. The heartburn has eased up a fair bit, but I had a rough day today anyway. But I wouldn't have it any other way. I still thinking feeling her move around is the coolest thing ever. Even when she is kicking the crap out of my already crabby liver, I think "oh look!" and poke at her to get a response.

Having been at least chubby, and outrightly fat for most of my life, I've never had a fond relationship with my tummy, but now I stare at it in wonder and awe. Sometimes I just lay in bed and stare, waiting for some movement or pondering what's going to happen to my belly button if I make it a few more weeks. I'm still really an innie, but it's taken on a whole new shape lately. It's fascinating.

I know this is the last time I'm going to do this. And truthfully, I'm relieved. The stress both on my body and my mind have not been slight. And there are things that I'm most assuredly looking forward to once the baby comes. (Lunch meat, margaritas, ibuprofen, to name a few.) But I'm also trying to be diligent about enjoying this while I can. Not every one gets this opportunity at all, and I won't again. I know I'll miss it.




The time to miss it is soon. At the outside edge, the baby will be here in 4 weeks. And since I'm pretty much betting we're looking at 37 weeks as a best case scenario, it might only be 3. Or even less. So I really am just trying to take in the last bits of this amazing time and ignore (or..grunt and groan through...) the uncomfortable parts. Today, I celebrate 34 weeks. Time will tell if we get to see 35.

--Trish