Full term! The doctor’s expert opinion this week is that I’ll probably be able to keep my appointment for next week. But then, he also said that the fact I was born 8 days early is good news for me, implying that he wouldn’t be surprised if the same might happen to us, now. Filing all these tidbits away in my head. Chances I will make it to my best friend’s birthday party next weekend? Pretty high. Chances I really will need to buy Jim an advance Father’s Day card to have “just in case”? Could also be pretty high. Playing the probabilities off of each other and trying to decide where to put my money, or in this case, effort.
I learned just this morning that all of the births we can track through all-female descent from my great-great-grandmother, the Annie Wickline Knight of whom I have just recently written, averaged one to two weeks early. This makes me lean even more toward having that Father’s Day card on hand. The middle and end of next week will be interesting, if the “getting ready” symptoms start to speed up appreciably.
The sudden high 80s and low 90s affecting our region this week wreaked havoc with hands and feet that had stayed unswollen for the first 92.5% of pregnancy. This coincides with me mentally bumping up against the wall that says “Ok, I’m done with this, any day now is fine by me.” Yes, I could reach that thing I dropped on the floor, but I don’t want to. I could do something productive, but I’d rather curl up, semi-tired, on the couch and elevate my feet and just meditate the afternoon away. I can practically feel the fluid collecting in my arches as I type. I feel a little better and more energetic when I drink water, so I’m drinking water like a drowning fool today. It’s noon and 90 with a sluggish breeze — at least I know it will get a lot better when the sun dips low enough to get behind a tree, and the sea breeze picks up.
Hanging in there…