Can I Get a Stork Up in Here?

So have I mentioned before how ready I am to get this baby OUT?

... Oh, only like 8,537 times?


But I am. I really, really, am. I want to hold him already. I want to be able to walk without feeling like a wishbone being split in half. I want to be able to go to Walmart without feeling like a sideshow spectacle. (I'm considering getting a T-shirt printed up that says Yes, there's only one. No, I'm not overdue. Yes, it's extremely uncomfortable. Yes, I know I'm huge. Now leave me the eff alone.)

Yesterday I went to my regularly scheduled doctor's appointment, where they did an ultrasound to estimate his weight. And y'all? He weighs over eight pounds already. His head alone is measuring 41 weeks gestation by one calculation (um, ouch?). But they refuse to induce me for two more weeks. Can you imagine what a behemoth he's going to be two weeks from now? Hello, I realize the vagina is a remarkably elastic thing, but my nether-regions are not made of Silly Putty.

I seriously almost cried sitting there in the doctor's office. "The 31st?" I said, trying hard not to sound too dismayed. "But ... but ... that's two more weeks. And he's already over eight pounds. And ..." my voice broke "... I'm ready to just get him out."

"Go into labor then," my doctor said coyly.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

If I could go into labor, I would. I so would. I would "poof" myself into labor right this very minute if I were able, even in my present undressed, un-showered, house-not-company-ready state. I have tried all the "at home labor induction" techniques - and I won't enumerate them here, but there are a lot of them, and none of them work. I swear I'm going to just have to coax Corbin out with a pork chop.

But, as ready as I am, at least the end is in sight. My induction is scheduled for 7 a.m. on May 31st. That means I'll have thirteen days from today to finish preparing, which will feel better in the long run, anyway. Yesterday I spent like five hours on my kitchen and laundry room floors: mopping them twice, going over the grungy perimeters with Clorox wipes, and then slapping on double-coats of Mop & Glo. And what do you know? This morning I woke up to a river-sized puddle of Labrador piss and an equally huge pile of crap on the laundry room floor. When I got that cleaned up, I came into the kitchen, and - whaddaya know? - stepped right into a mess of cat barf. ON MY FRESHLY MOPPED FLOORS.

I can't keep anything clean.

At least I have two more weeks to try ...


  1. From the stories you've told, your husband will be fascinated watching your lady part be stretched to something the size of a NBA regulation basketball.

  2. Ugh! I hope he decides to make his entrance soon - for both of your sake. And, 8 LBS ALREADY? We had an ultrasound yesterday and our little guy is measuring 6 lbs and I about had a heart attack.

  3. You have tried the same method that got that little bundle of joy in there the first place, right?

  4. I'm miserable FOR you! Wish I could tell you how to go into labor, but I guess Corbin will just have to make up his mind to show up. Quit working so hard and rest all you can. I'll help you with the house when I get there!

  5. "I swear I'm going to just have to coax Corbin out with a pork chop." Funniest statement E.V.E.R.!!!!!!


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