My due date has come and gone. As well as some of the anxiety of approaching it. I delivered BB 3 days before my due date, but now that that hasn’t happened I feel like I’m living on borrowed time.
Normally our weeks are full of activities and nights out for me. As of my due date I have nothing scheduled.
Every evening that isn’t spent in hospital underwear with a baby on my boob is some kind of weird bonus. Even if I’m still in compression tights and have now gained 40 pounds.
BB asked me,
“Did the baby make your butt grow?”
That or donuts and ice cream.
BB has a sense of ownership over my belly that not even Captain can have. She touches it, kisses it, hugs it, slaps it and uses it for leverage whenever it suits her. I’m enjoying the last few days of having a shelf for my coffee cup. Last few days. Last day. Something like that. PLEASE.
At my induction massage, A WEEK AGO, I was told that the skin on my stomach looks amazing. Which has led me to the only possible conclusion: postpartum I’ll wear sweatpants to cover my atrocious veins and a trendy, crop top to showcase my mummy tummy. Or in reality I’ll just wear my floor-length, zebra, fleece robe.
I’ve tried all the things. Including asking this baby very nicely if she would please come out.
I’m enjoying afternoon naps, never being cold and the to-do list that’s dwindled down to the things that I’d really rather not do.
I’m so overheated that BB has started calling me her Hot Mama. Yesterday we were walking out of the Y and she said,
“I want my Hot Mama to carry me.”
She snuggles up and murmurs,
Hard to say what other people make of this, as sexy as I look right now.