6/20

8 pounds 3 ounces.

Let's all say that together, just so we can get the full impact of that number: 8 pounds 3 ounces, at 37 weeks. If the baby gains 1/2 pound per week, he's looking at a solid 10 pounds at delivery. I'm supposed to push out a squirming, 10-pound object out of my vagina while "breathing through" the pain.

That was the thought that was bouncing around my head as the technician kept squirting goo on my torso while muttering, "this baby is everywhere." Yep, he is. His head was right now by my bladder, although I didn't need an ultrasound to tell me that, and his legs were curled up right under my ribs. Cozy. My favorite part of the ultrasound was when the technician focused on his face, all squished up against the uterine wall. His mouth was opening and closing and I could almost hear him say, "Help me, Mom! I don't want to be in here anymore." If I could reach into my vagina, through my cervix, and single-handedly pull him out, I would do it. In fact, I think one of the reason the female body is made the way that it is is to discourage this exact behavior.

Looking back over my recent blog entries, I noticed that I've written very little about the FOB lately. I called him today with the results of the ultrasound and he told me his new and revised "plan". This plan involves me calling him during the early stages of labor so he can jump on a plane and fly from NH to TX to see his son being born. After I got through laughing at his "plan" I told him not to bother since he wasn't going to be in the birthing room anyways. The best part of the plan was when I realized that the baby isn't going to know if he sees Daddy (a.k.a. Mr. Sperm Donor) for the first time at 1 hour or 1 week old. There is beauty in that kind of ignorance.

On the upside, Mr. Sperm Donor finally found a job after two months of unemployment and is in the training stage of employment. Maybe there is hope of child support on the horizon. Maybe my Doc will choose to induce me at 8 1/2 pounds of baby instead of the full 10 and maybe my heart burn will ease up enough for me to stop contemplating a late-night tracheotomy. Maybe.