Oh for Pete’s sake, Vegas. One tiny centimeter is all you’ll give us? After all of the reflexology, pregnancy tea, walks around the block (up hill, both ways!), cat-cow, squatting on the ball – that’s it? Not even a budge on the effacement? Plus you might be sideways now, instead of head-down? WTF, man? Did you SEE that it’s supposed to be 96 degrees next week? You, my friend, are a mean ol’ baby.
OK OK, not like we NEED you to come today. You’d still be a week before your due date. Fine. You have a point. Plus, four million ladies in town are apparently having babies today, considering all of the hubbub at the OB office, and the lengthy wait times. We’d like to avoid competing for attention at the hospital, and potentially being bumped to the L&D overflow area. So fine. Today’s not the day. Even if I did experience more liquidy leakage last night, my water has not broken, but I might be incontinent. Sweet. Pass the Depends.
The good news is that my blood pressure is still A-OK, and the approaching tally for total weight gain is at 19 pounds, not counting the ten I lost during the great-nausea-depression. So a net gain of nine pounds, total. Thumbs up for that, at least.
I’ll need you to come soon, though, kiddo. Otherwise, your birth story will start with something like, “Holy fucking shit, Vegas, it was the hottest day of the year.” Your mother dreamt last night that you were a boy. Which would be fine, but when your man-friends in town will be Anders, Hudson, Griffin, Owen, and Jacob, it’s still kind of hard to figure out what the hell to name you. Thank goodness there’s an app for that.
Take your time. Hurry up. Come as you are, Vegas.