I’m going to cry.

Or polish off a quart of Breyers mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Every time I’m asked.

Anyway, the past couple of days have been a bit rough.

I went from having contractions every 10-15 minutes, to every 5 minutes. Many of them quite strong and painful.  This has happened everyday since Friday, lasting for a few hours on and off.

By the end of each day I feel like I’ve run a marathon because of the constant contractions and breathlessness.

This is definitely not how things unfolded with Babisodes four years ago.  With her, I had mild contractions for a few days, my water broke, and once I couldn’t bear the pain any longer, we swung by Panda Express on the way to the hospital so I could grab a bite to eat (since I knew they wouldn’t feed me until after she was born).

This time around, my body wants me to suffer.

I finally called my doctor today to get myself checked out, and I am a whopping two centimeters dilated.

If you are unfamiliar with the stages of labor, 2 cm’s is not a big deal. At least not for the activity that I’ve had recently.  Most hospitals admit woman when they are about 4 cm’s or if their water has broken.  A baby is delivered at 10 cm’s.

By this time during my last pregnancy, I had already been 3 cm’s for over a week (with little to no pain), and it took another week and a half before my daughter was born.

If this kid wants to cook inside for another week or so, fine.

But enough with the bluffing already.

37.5 weeks

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Like when I turned 30, and some jackass thought it was appropriate to send me an AARP application.

Thirty!

Or last year when a Golden Girls-esque wig catalog arrived on my doorstep, addressed to moi.

Shimmery, permed kind of wigs (click above link to see the scariest blond Asian woman ever).

Last month I even received an American Express Black Card application in the mail.  Did you know they have an annual fee of $2,500?

Think they’re aware I paid for a coffee and $1 menu apple pies in quarters at McDonalds today?

Apparently thirty marks a time of retirement, hair-loss and wealth.

Perhaps when I hit forty, they’ll send me information on Craftmatic Adjustable Beds and reverse mortgages.

However, on the flip side, there are some companies with an uncanny way of being in the know.

For instance, last year, major diaper and infant formula companies began sending products to my parent’s house addressed to me.  All before I even tested positive on a pregnancy test.

How did they know?

With this in-depth method of learning about a target audience, you would think that companies would automatically remove me from these sorts of mailing lists…

“I love my body?”

Well if I did, then I don’t anymore, thankyouverymuch.

I swear every model’s waistline in this flyer is as wide as my thigh.  And their thighs are thinner than my ankles.

Not to mention, I haven’t been able to see my crotch in months. I’m sure it’s a hot mess down there, and I’m not about to try and squeeze it all into their delicate $25 underwear.

Being on every pregnancy mailing list possible right now should somehow preclude me from receiving any ad with hot women.  And at 9 months pregnant, while carrying an extra 25 pounds and struggling to put one pant leg on at a time, trying on G-strings right now is up there on my to-do list with having an epidural needle wedged into my spine.

Don’t get me wrong.  I do not dislike the store or anything.  But until my granny panties no longer look like a twist-tie on a loaf of bread, no thanks.

However, if Victoria’s Secret could somehow figure out how to keep my boobs this size as they rear up to breastfeed, I would be ALL over that.

This was really the only way I could fly: drugged and muted.  The stewardess didn’t even bother to offer me a beverage.  I stood up with my head bent forward, ducking below the overhead compartments, and inched my way into the line of passengers in the center isle. With each step, I grasped the back of an unoccupied seat, struggling to find my balance.

Once I finally reached the front of the aircraft, I stopped to face the exit door.  The searing summer heat shook me sober, and my eyes stung from the blazing afternoon sun.  Beside me, a pilot’s voice mumbled, “Enjoy your stay in San Diego.”

The sunlight here was different from the sunlight back in Florida. Although it was roughly the same temperature, the air was drier, and my tank top did not stick to me.  The shadows cast from the tall palm trees seemed strangely unfamiliar. Perhaps the fronds were a different species. Late afternoon hues along the pavement even appeared foreign, from another world.

My luggage made its way around the baggage carousel, and I yanked each suitcase off with fervor.

“One. Two. Three bags.” I thought doing a mental count.

I turned around and swiftly maneuvered my rolling baggage behind me. Weaving in and out of the congested arteries of the terminal- a dense network of blond hair and tanned skin scattering in different directions- I was clearly a foreign body.  The wandering stares at my high-cheek bones and pin-straight black hair offered a self-conscious diagnosis that I did not belong.

But more pressing concerns sped the pace of my feet, nearly as quickly as my thoughts.  Anxiety. Fear. Determination. All pulsated against my frontal cortex.  With each step, each heartbeat, each breath, the uncertainty of a temporary work assignment for the next three months seemed too heavy to bear. No car. No map. Not a familiar face within three time zones.

This was not part of the itinerary.

Steps away from the exit, my stomach overturned as I whispered softly beneath my breath, “What the hell am I doing?”

But a blast of 100F degree heat from the sliding automatic doors focused my thoughts, as if they were curtains pulled aside to expose a new life.

—————————————————————————————————————————————–
Somehow I knew, that on that day, my life would never be the same.  However, I would have never imagined what I would discover during that “temporary” work assignment.  Despite living alone out of a few suitcases, with a horrible job, and not knowing a soul, I somehow found Dadisodes.

Years ago we would lie about how we met, back when meeting someone online was deemed taboo, too dangerous, and merely for the eccentric internet user.  But I have no regrets taking the dive to meet him in person on a whim. Even though I was only to be there for a few weeks, I took a chance.  I figured my chance was lost when he ended of our first date with a handshake, but with a stroke of luck, all the odds were in my favor, and another date followed.  Turns out, he was just a geek gentleman.

Happy 5th Anniversary Dadisodes…

Perhaps we can do Vegas again someday.

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A week ago I blogged about how I’ve grown used to the tumultuous weather here in New England.  How I am a recovering Weather Channel addict and no longer have the urge to constantly check the forecast.

Pardon me as I open my mouth and insert a foot.

Allow me to explain.

All week it has been 37F degrees outside, and raining. Heavily. Oh, and then there’s the occasional 50 mph wind gust.

This is the kind of weather that scoffs at umbrellas and rain boots; fogs your car windows and floods the streets.  And old man winter finds it hilarious that we’re all freezing in our Spring raincoats.

I mean, if it’s going to be in the 30’s, give me snow.  So we can at least still go outside and play, plows can clear the roads, and school can be canceled.

Because schlepping a kiddo around in torrential rain that is damn near freezing and coming down sideways, blows.

Being stuck inside for over a week in an effort to stay warm and dry gets old quick.  And for a 4-year old (and her mom), it can be maddening.  There are only so many DVD’s to watch, books to read, and crafts to glue before we get delusional.

The meteorologist says to not expect any dry weather or sun until maybe next week.

But I swear I saw a rainbow at breakfast while eating me Lucky Charms…

Drops of water sit firmly, hanging onto the windshield. Little beads squeezed from the clouds, each barely missing the chance to remain a snowflake due to the 35F degree temperatures outside.

A gentle right turn sends them swaying to one side.

Despite their wobbling, they remain standing, tiny prisms refracting my life.

But they rarely last. Just as the soft tapping of the raindrops lulls me into a heavy-eyed trance, I reach a Stop sign.  My foot hits the brakes and everything lurches forward.  In one fell swoop, a crashing wave from the roof washes every last bead of water away.

Lately, by 5pm, I always stumble upon a Stop sign. Every fiber of my body responsible for keeping me vertical collapses, and I fall into a pile of goo.

Apparently lugging around an extra two dozen pounds all day while chasing a 4-year old, running errands, and climbing the house stairs, is finally taking it’s toll.

I have been mentally writing this post since Sunday, but not until today have I been able to muster the energy to string two sentences together.

So in these final weeks, while I struggle to stay awake, please know that I am still here, only slower, more cautious.

I’m just carrying a heavy load.

(35 weeks)

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