Baby's Big Fat Head Seen from Space

I had my first dream/nightmare last night about going into labor. Luckily it wasn’t about the actual labor itself but about the arguably much worse trauma of getting organized to leave for the hospital. It was VERY similar to that dream where it’s the morning of the first day of a new school year and you don’t know where any classes are, or what your schedule is, or where you have to register. I guess going into labor is a lot like that – you don’t know what you’re doing and despite the fact that there are all kinds of official people there to ‘help’, they are of no use to you. And you never have the right text book.

I had my 40-week appointment this morning (erk!) and the doctor basically said the same thing as last week – big fat baby, big fat head, no change, you’re going to get torn a new one if you don’t go ahead any make my life easier by just scheduling the c-section. *sigh* I also like to be told that I need to worry about the long weekend. God forbid I interrupt someone’s camping trip. Then I fought with my HR Benefits person because I can't just start STD next Monday because I say so; I'd have to have a doctor say so. After the hassle of getting the FMLA paperwork filled out (plus the OB/GYN office charged me a $10 fee! F***ers!), I asked her if it wouldn't be simpler to take the week of Sick or Vacation next week (at the beginning instead of the end of my leave time). But no, she wants me to call her after next week's appointment. Argh.


The seriously GREAT news is that my parents have decided they’re done with waiting as well, so they’re just going to plan on packing up the car Thursday and heading this way for Friday. Which is awesome, because I’ll probably be sitting twiddling my thumbs all next week, and now I’ll have company to keep me occupied. Plus I have been dying for 6 months to have my mother here, and hopefully she’ll arrive in time to feel this crazy baby in utero and mock my hugeness. And push me around in some sort of cart.

While I may not be dilated or effaced, my Bishop’s Score for irritability is 100%. I am mean to everyone without prejudice, and flipped off someone who honked at me for the first time in my whole life. I figure at my current weight I can take ANYONE, so good luck trying to yank me from my vehicle. My patience is stretched and thin, and my tolerance has dropped. So while Junior might not be ready, I am. For some stabbin’. I bought some Fenugreek and Black Cohosh and just may be ready to try jumping jacks. And knitting needles.