Thursday, September 29, 2011

Struggling from ME to US via FUCK

Guess what, guys?

I'm still fucking pregnant.

Yes I am.

Full 35 weeks, come tomorrow.

With a big ole belly sticking out beyond my boobs, making it impossible for me to see what the bathroom scale has to say about my condition when I stand on it. Which, I think, a lot of you out there, if you also without really understanding when, how, or why had gained exactly 30 kilos (66 lbs to you Americanally challenged out there, and so say the sharp eyes of the OB/GYN), would also want to be blocked out by, if not a belly, then a fairy godmother of all things carbohydrate at least.

But I prefer the belly. Filled with 2 kilos of an alive & kicking baby, a paranormal placenta that according to any and all kinds of measurements should have completely stopped working a while back, the normal amount of amniotic fluid (the normalcy at this stage and considering the zombie-placenta also being something not short of one of those things people religiously inclined sometimes refer to as miracles, but I like to refer to as ginormous fuck yous from: me to: Universe), and some other assorted pregnancy related stuff, which I'm gloriously oblivious about, but which I'm sure accounts for at least 10 kilos of what I've gained and will thus magically disappear once they cut the babe out.


Still, I'm not really concerned with the weight gain. That's not something I tend to worry about. I'm sure you've long ago realized that I've always been more of a 'what if the globe were to run out of Pinot Blanc-grapes' (a definite sign of an impending apocalypse) type of an existence.

And currently, even any impending wine-related apocalypses would have to wait while I get ready and have this baby.

GIANT FUCKING GASP. Yup, that's the breeze you just felt.

Because that's really all that fills my days and nights at the moment. Feeling for reassuring kicks alternated with moments of tear-filled panic when she's probably just taking a nap or not feeling up to squeezing the last drops out of my bladder. Proudly watching her giving the world the finger (she is mine after all) on the ultrasound screen alternated with creeping doubts as she fails yet another fetal non-stress test. Getting bombarded by bad news and rising above them all and finding that glimmer of hope that comes with listening to the Beautiful South's Don't Marry Her, or Loretta Lynn's Coal Miner's Daughter (just roll with these, there really is no intelligent explanation for either) on repeat. And telling the Universe and her curve balls to fuck off and just stubbornly get ready for becoming a family (I know, I too kind of shudder).

If her first word turns out to be 'fuck' I'll only have myself to blame.

But right now, we're just focused on there being a first word one sunny day.

Wine-apocalypse, just give me a few months.