Motorcycle = 95 decibels. Baby’s cry = 115 decibels

38 weeks and 4 days pregnant. Baby Bop seems very comfortable hanging out with my intestines. I told her there’s better scenery to be had, but so far no interest.

The number of activities I’m interested in doing is declining. Will there be a bathroom? A place to sit where I can man-spread? A place to stand? A place to lie down? Food? Air conditioning? Did I mention a bathroom? If I can check most of these off, I may go.

At my Little Sister’s junior high graduation the other day a mom of her friend tells me,

“You’re brave.”

“Brave?”

“To be out and about when you’re due so soon.”

I’m in Somerville. The hospital is almost as close as if I were in Boston. The only brave thing about me being here is I don’t know where the bathroom is. Yet.

Captain mentions the monthly neighborhood meeting coming up: Free food, free drinks, which are irrelevant, but still sound great, and on the roof top of a neighboring condo building. Did I mention I have a weakness for roof-top decks? I’m on board for the meeting.

My expectations are low. The massive Indie car race that was coming to our neighborhood was canceled. Captain may be the only resident who is disappointed. Without the race to complain about, people are going to have to stretch for things. I shouldn’t have doubted them.

The police always open the monthly meeting with a recital of the recent criminal activity in the area. This time there are 4 officers, including the police chief. I have a hard time because these guys are from the district that arrested my dog 3 years ago. His record has been cleared.

One officer tells us,

“I really had to search for something this time, but someone broke into a locker at a gym and stole an iPhone.”

That was not worth however much tax money is paying 4 police officers to tell us this. The officer adds,

“Any questions?”

A woman almost jumps off her seat,

“I’ve noticed an increase in deafening motorcycles.”

The officers stare at her and adopt their impression of a sympathetic expression. She continues,

“Have you noticed that?”

Is this the same lady who complained about the increase in airplanes? She should be counting her blessings that hundreds of race cars aren’t descending upon her. An officer asks her,

“Is it more than usual?”

“Oh yes, they’re deafening and especially at night.”

I’m baffled by the noise complaints from people who have chosen to live downtown in a major city. Never mind that there’s a proposal for a public helipad to go in a few streets away. Sound-wise that should drown out the motorcycles.

And while we’re complaining, I’d like to report an increase in obnoxious comments to very pregnant women.* One guy yelled across the street at me, it was loud.

*I cannot take credit for that joke. Thank you to a recently pregnant friend.

So if anyone hears a screaming pregnant lady, followed by the deafening roar of a Toyota Highlander, we’ll soon be back with a screaming baby. You’re welcome.

Version 2

I have no reasonable explanation for this photo. I wanted photos to document my belly. After numerous generic poses, I asked Captain, “Are there any poses you’d like me to do?” He gets a big smile on his face and declares, “A Captain pose!” Then he demonstrates. So here it is.

 

 

At any moment I may no longer be pregnant

37 weeks and 3 days pregnant. At this point, the additional days feel important. In theory Baby Bop could decide to emerge anytime in the next four weeks. I can’t think of any other momentous life event that requires such a wide window of availability.

I head to the grocery store to stock up for the end of the world. I understand that we can order groceries online, but that’s expensive and I find descriptions like 6 ounces of blueberries versus 18 ounces of blueberries unhelpful. Both photos look the same, but then my blueberries arrive and I realize I just paid four dollars for the tiniest package of blueberries I’ve ever seen.

I go to Market Basket. I check out twice. First I buy enough dry goods for the rest of the summer. I take those to the car. I head back in and start on the food. The only good thing about shopping for Armageddon is that no one else is. I’m the only crazy person with 12 chicken breasts sliding off of my stack of 6 boxes of Cheerios, stacked on 8 cans of baked beans.

Yes I live in a tiny living space and yes I’m not sure where all this is going to go, but for whatever reason my pregnant brain needs to do this. A random stranger remarks,

“Looks like you’re pregnant.”

Is he referring to my belly or my cart?

I push on. The store is crowded, but there’s a general give and take between people as we get in each other’s way, except for people pushing carts while talking on cell phones. They’re dangerous. One young guy is chatting away on his phone and on a collision course for my Jenga game of groceries.

An older guy runs up behind him shouting,

“Hey! Hey! Hey!”

The guy on the phone turns with an eye roll. The older guy says,

“That’s my cart!”

The young guy glances down, acknowledges that yes the cart he’s pushing with 3 items in it is not his and walks 10 feet away to a cart that’s half full. He offers,

“I thought the cart felt light.”

Hours later I’m finished. Checkout turns my grocery cart into two grocery carts. I make a valiant effort to push both. An employee rushes to help me. He even insists on loading my car. The pregnant belly has its pros and cons.

I get home much later than I anticipated, with only enough time to make our condo look like a grocery store before Captain and I have to leave for our birth class. We return at 10pm. I look at the food everywhere. I go to bed. I’m feeling concerned. I tell Captain,

“I’m having a lot of feelings.”

“Like what?”

“Baby Bop could come at anytime. She could come tomorrow before I have a chance to put all the groceries away.”

Captain reassures me,

“I can put groceries away.”

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Someday I can just sit in the cart.

 

What’s Baby Bop’s favorite color? Who knows, but mine is pink

36 weeks pregnant. The finish line is in sight. I can almost see it just beyond my giant belly.

People keep exclaiming,

“You’re even bigger!”

I know. And I was guilty of saying this to my very pregnant friends 20 weeks ago.

With another wonderful baby shower checked off the list, I’m very close to filling every square inch of the condo with baby accessories.

Since I moved in a year and a half ago, Captain has been donating his clothes or taking them to his parents’. First to make room for me and now to make room for Baby Bop’s very impressive wardrobe for someone who doesn’t wear clothes yet.

If everything goes well and there’s another kid and it’s a boy, he’s out of luck. Unless he loves dresses.

I understand that Baby Bop may hate the color pink and never want to wear a dress for the rest of her life, but until she can articulate those feelings, or take her clothes off, she’s out of luck. And if she’s in the market for a security blanket that’s not pink, she’s also out of luck. Although after 34 years, my pink security blanket is not so pink anymore. Yes I wash it. Every other year.

gendered clothing

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Blankety circa 2008, after traveling around the world for 2 years.

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Washed!

 

I am one hot pregnant lady

35 weeks pregnant. Things are getting real. The foot and butt in my ribs won’t be there much longer. And I’m looking forward to having full bladder capacity again, which wasn’t that impressive to begin with.

Captain used to be the hot, sweaty one in our relationship, but I’ve taken over. Pre-pregnancy I could walk the mile to the grocery store no problem. Now I need two frozen smoothie stops along the way. Yes I’m hot AND hungry.

I haven’t been hot like this since before puberty. I spent the first 5 years of my life mostly or completely naked. There’s a great home video of 3-year-old, half-naked Jessica telling my 3-year-old friend’s mom that he’s hot and needs to take his jacket off. He wasn’t and didn’t.

My mom threw me a wonderful baby shower last weekend, thank you mom and thank you friends! The present opening portion got intense. Maybe I was moving too fast, but the next thing I know, I’m dripping sweat.

My dear friend tells me,

“No rush, take your time.”

I have no sense of time when I’m opening presents in front of a group of people. Am I going too slow? Is it entertaining? Is it boring? Do people need a drink? Am I expressing enough gratitude and saying the right things? I’m a sweaty mess and not sure if I’m going to make it.

I did make it and all presents were opened. I pull up to the condo and call Captain to unload. He exclaims,

“Quite the haul!”

“Yes!” Although half the car is taken up by balloons. There’s one really big balloon that may still be floating when Baby Bop is on the other side.

I recount the party. Captain tells me,

“I’m really enjoying you being hot and sweaty.”

At least someone is.

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