I swear I thought I was 25. I really did. Okay, intellectually I know I’m turning 35 on the 28th of this month, but I also intellectually know my bra is probably two full sizes too small – it means nothing.
Granted, in comparison to my early twenties I’m no longer scheming on how to get my parents to stock my fridge with groceries, but other than that, I’m pretty much the same. Well, I guess instead of going to a club on Friday nights, I now binge on Mad Men and Ben & Jerry’s for entertainment, but other than that, I’m pretty much the same. Well, I guess “happy hour” in my 20s now means “nap” in my 30s – but other than that, whatever, you get my point. The “Advanced Maternal Age” label they’re slapping on me during this pregnancy feels like a real kick in the jewels.
The thought that I could be so young and vibrant with my entire life ahead of me, yet pumping out Carol Burnett eggs out of my ovaries just doesn’t make any damn sense.
I suppose the upside is that I get a little more attention towards the end of my pregnancy and get to peek at my little McNugget. And to my pure delight, I saw baby chub rolls. Basically, everything I ever wanted. Also, I think I finally have a baby that looks like me.
Fortunately, everything looks wonderful, except they’re also telling me she’s a bit big. But they don’t know for sure as the technology isn’t perfect. But they’re pretty sure. And her rolls are a bit of clue.
We also discovered I have an abnormally high amount of amniotic fluid. Nothing alarming, but I’ve been told if my water breaks, “Just hope you’re not standing over your favorite rug.” So basically I’ve tarped my entire house like I’m Dexter enacting revenge because even though she was kidding, she wasn’t kidding that much. I’ve also been told that the fluid will make me extremely uncomfortable. As if I didn’t know I was extremely uncomfortable. In order to do basic movements, I have to get momentum by getting a good roll going. My almost 2 year old has taken full advantage. In fact, right now she’s emptying out my entire underwear drawer and refilling it with Ivory soap bars. I’m gonna try and roll out of my chair and do something about it I swear. (No I won’t.)
Yet, there’s a silver lining – I’m 2 cm dilated. Which means I can go into labor any day now. Or never. I Googled it and some women stayed at 2 cm until their 80s, so whatever. Every woman is different and IF WE CAN SEND A MAN TO THE MOON WHY CAN’T WE REALLY KNOW ANYTHING FOR SURE, EVER?
Anyway, if you guys need this advanced maternal mama, I’ll be sitting here with a trash bag over my chair probably knitting while watching QVC, hoping my water breaks. Wish me luck.