I think that it’s time to start not just counting up, but counting down to the official Estimated Due Date. She may come earlier; she may come later; but at some point soon, she’ll be here.
We are switching out of “pregnancy” mode here and in to “delivery” mode. I’m making bag-packing lists, scheduling hospital visits, calling pediatricians, and installing car seat bases in the next week or two. There’s a play yard/sleeper in the living room that is currently a convenient place to fold tiny mountains of baby laundry, but will soon be the empire of a tiny little empress. I’m washing aforementioned mountains of baby laundry. We need to clean out and reorganize the bathroom closet so her little basket of baby bath supplies can have a convenient home (right next to the little basket of doggie bath supplies). Amy is going to have a practice afternoon of dogsitting next weekend so that when Jim and I have to rush out and other people come to feed and hang out with her for a little while, she doesn’t think it’s too weird. Luckily our volunteer dogsitters are folks she knows and loves already, so she just needs to be like, “Okay, they know how to feed and walk me, that’s all good.” She’ll still try to make them conform to her idea of a schedule, so I have to make sure to warn them about her little tricks.
Amy helps with one of the mountains of baby laundry.
Jabs and kicks are getting stronger, to the point where I was almost off to sleep last night when a particularly fierce and sudden one woke me up with a yelp. Alright, I’ll roll over! The low pressure wave we’ve been sitting in since Wednesday evening has made her fidgety, to the point where there is hardly an hour when she isn’t up to something, or suddenly shifting and putting all her weight down on my pelvic bone for a split second. I am placing a bet that she’s born during a low pressure swing. She is mostly quiet at night and in to the morning, though after I eat breakfast she starts to roll around. I credit the coffee for that, even when it’s half-caff.
Speaking of the furchild, she’s gotten gluey. She follows me from room to room even more than usual, watching me with wide, liquid eyes (see above photo), and weighing my feet down when I elevate them at night so I can’t get away from her. I’m getting more “helicopter ears” and goofy smiles than usual, and she keeps looking from baby bump up to my face and back to bump. As a two-time mother herself, I’m sure she knows what’s going on and can also sense the subtle changes in my hormones and scent that tell her the time is getting close. We keep wondering if she can hear something going on in there, as evidenced by the look on her face in this picture:
Shh! I think I hear something!
Oh, Little Amy. Your life is about to change…for the better, I think. Every dog needs a girl to call her very own.