So. Mother's Day*. We went to my sister-in-law's for a dinner with our family and her in-laws. Lots of mothers. Lots of small children. And so very much assvice.
"You will want to have an epidural. Just plan on it."
"You'll definitely need an episiotomy. They'll probably give you one."
"Leave the baby overnight with family as soon as possible."
And so on. These are wonderful, thoughtful, helpful women and I do appreciate that they are interested and willing to help, but sweet fancy Moses, can it with the unsolicited assvice. I have a doctor who went to medical school and everything, and I am fully literate and have begun reading all the "How to Not Kill Your Baby Accidentally" books for myself. I even signed up for childbirth and breastfeeding classes today. I hope I get a certificate to prove I graduated to "fully competent to make my own damn decisions"!
I may have been primed for a little irritation at the perceived third-party hostile takeover of my wombfruit and relevant related decisions therein, because I spent the first half of the day writhing in unslept, uncomfortable, totally constipated agony. Just when I thought constipation was a thing of the past, it jumped out of the bushes -- "Gotcha, bitch!" I broke down and cried, y'all. Over poop. KB earned another notch on his husband of the year belt (lord knows the poor bastard isn't getting any kind of notches on the bedpost, peeps) when he went out to score some hippie-type juice with wheatgrass. No stubborn turd can stand up to mothereffin' wheatgrass. And so it worked, and my tears dried up, and I got purdied up to go have my belly and contents thereof ogled by a room full of women all done with their childbearing, and so eager to plan mine. I scored some hand-me-down stuff that they brought by just for me, so I am super grateful for that (free books, clothes, bibs, and the like). But really, ladies, the assvice? You can keep.
Then today I had the nervous shits all morning (what is it with me and the scat?) before my level 2 ultrasound and anatomy scan. Maybe it was residual wheatgrass. Unlikely. OB appointments make me anxious, because they are the only timepoints at which anything bad can be revealed. Fortunately, the bebe is fine, my placenta looks nice, my cervix is long and closed, and the doctor is pleased with my weight gain and what he apparently considers to be reasonable control of my pregnancy symptoms (whatever, dude -- let's see you manage this for 5 months and counting and tell me it's reasonable). And I signed up for classes that will teach us all about birthin' the baby and feeding it and whatnot, in August. I have to call the hospital to sign us up for a tour of the fancy-pants birthing center. I read online that they have whirlpool tubs in every room, and all rooms are private. Rock on.
Here's the kid either sucking a thumb or flipping us all the bird:
*Flowers did appear. Point scored.