Friday afternoon: I have lifted too much, been on my feet too much, and am sore, tired, and sweating like a rabid monkey. Finish up work for the day and wait for MIL to show up.
Friday evening: MIL comes over to finish setting up for baby shower. KB has already set up card tables and folding chairs, I have already covered with table cloths and put out plates and napkins; now we grapple with the plastic champagne glasses (she has brought 14 glasses to make mimosas, with a guest list of ~35 people). She underestimates my friends' ability to throw down even at noon. She invites me to go with her to buy flowers for the centerpieces and I craftily puppetmaster her into getting flowers that I like. I continue to sweat like a hog in heat and hope this display demonstrates to my MIL that I am, literally, a hot mess in my current state. (Sometimes I think she doesn't quite believe it.)
Friday night: My girlfriend from college arrives from Iowa and we go out to dinner. We catch up, have a great time, and then IT is discussed. I forget how it came up, but I mention that if we have a boy he will be circumcised. She makes no attempt to hide her disdain and interjects every objection she can muster. I respectfully listen, counter where I feel appropriate, and then just begin nodding my head and hoping to change the subject soon. I do not equate it with genital mutilation and I do believe there is limited clinical evidence of benefit. I understand that there are potential pros and cons to both options (to circ or not to circ). Also, there's the personal preference angle. And, above all else, it's our choice as parents. Our pediatrician is Jewish, so I doubt we'll get any lectures from him about the whole thing. So, whatevs. We also discuss her upcoming dIUI and I try to offer as much support as I can, and help her understand the importance of realistic expectations.
Saturday morning: I wake up and feel terrible. Sense of dread. Anxiety over 35+ people ogling me builds. I feel like a heifer. I am nauseous and dizzy and sweating like a fat man in a sauna. I try moving a large, heavy glass pitcher in the kitchen and manage to drop it, breaking the glass into a million shards. Full of awesome. I spend 30 minutes on my hands and knees picking up slivers of glass while yelling at the dog to stay out of the kitchen, then haul the vacuum into the kitchen to finish the clean-up before people show up and slice their feet open on my floor. I cry. I wail, actually. Anxiety is now dialed up to "11." Pain is escalating. I get into the shower and try to hit the reset button. After an hour of struggling to cool off and get dressed, I manage to pull my shit together just as MIL and SIL are arriving to prepare to greet guests. KB returns home from picking my sister up at the airport, and she says I'm glowing. No, sweetie, I'm sweating. Profusely. I drag a chair over to an air conditioning vent and park it.
Saturday noon: People begin arriving. MIL's friends are the first to arrive, and I have not met most of them, ever. One of them doesn't know that I am the guest of honor and says, "Oh, you're pregnant, too!" Yep. Another of MIL's friends shows up with a giant, no, GIANT flower arrangement full of urine-yellow flowers. It's so large it has to sit on the floor of the living room (there's no table top surface that can hold it). It looks distinctly like a funeral parlor arrangement. We are just missing the casket. People keep arriving and I am trying to keep up with hello's and greetings, until I give up and sit down and make them come to me. I'm wiped already.
Saturday 1:00PM: We eat. I have a plate of pasta salad, the only item on the menu that doesn't contain shellfish or lunch meat. I drink water, because the other options are either carbonated, sugary, or boozy. KB takes the dog for a walk while we eat because the old ladies are cluck-clucking over whether she will be a nuisance and beg for food (she doesn't). I call him back to the house when I am informed it is time to open gifts.
Saturday 1:30PM: Go-go-gadget social anxiety! My sister offers to be the scribe and keep track of gift-givers for me. KB busts out his inner class clown and announces each gift in his outside voice, a la the town crier. He cracks me up. Each item is peppered with color commentary, like "I don't know what this is, but I like it!" or "I KNOW we need some of these, whatever they are!" I heart him. I continue to sweat like a disgusting pig, but everyone continues to tell me how much I glow. Again, whatevs. We actually get lots of really neat stuff, much of it from the registry. A few practical items show up, like car mirrors and diapers and a monitor. Lord bless those thoughtful moms who know what we really need.
Saturday 2:30PM: With help from my 7-year-old niece and her 4-year cousin, we tear through the remaining presents and KB speeds up his town crier routine a la auctioneer. Then, cake is served. My SIL brought the cake and it is both cute (onesie piped on it) and delicious (vanilla cake with strawberry filling and whipped cream icing). A friend, who brought her 3-week-old son with her, starts breastfeeding him with a hooter-hider and the old ladies are taken aback by this immodest display. They all formula-fed their kids in the '60's and '70's and do NOT approve. Also, they quietly gossip over how my friend whack-whacks her baby's back to burp him. She's hurting him! Look how hard she's hitting him! They probably don't realize that breastfed babies don't burp as easily (less air gets sucked in versus a bottle), and also that if it he's not crying, he's fine. (Oh, old ladies, you amuse me.)
Saturday 3:30PM: People start leaving, and some of MIL's friends whom I didn't know before leave without having said so much as hello. Weird. I guess attending other people's relatives' showers is a social event for them. I sit down and realize my feet are SWOLLEN. And I'm still sweating. And I'm relieved that the shower is A) over, B) successful, and C) making my MIL happy (she still worries if everyone got enough food, enjoyed the punch, etc., etc., etc. and we all reassure her that everyone loved it). Tables and chairs get hauled back to the basement in record time and our house is restored to order within an hour.
Saturday night: My feet are really SWOLLEN. I have cankles. Shit.
Sunday: Yep, cankles. Here to stay. And apparently my belly has grown in the past few days when I wasn't paying attention, because my belly button is now nearly flat.
Monday 3:30AM: Dog is vomiting. What an asshole. I get up and clean it up, pat her on the head, tell her she's a good dog, and try to go back to sleep. No dice. I am up for the duration.
Monday afternoon: Can't focus on work. Start sorting the baby gifts, making a pile of clothes and blankets to wash. Unpack monitor, spa sounds thingy, etc. Empty crib and bassinet of blankets, sock monkeys, etc. and load up changing table compartments with diapers and whatnots. Start packing diaper bag. Contemplate starting hospital bag. Reject.
Tuesday: Wishing I could start maternity leave NOW. I am exhausted. I have cankles. My pelvis hurts. I am fighting the urge to seriously beg/demand/plead for induction, because I really don't want to interfere with nature, but I am also not-so-secretly cursing the bitch for making me suffer. What a whore.
Present moment: And now we are all caught up. The shower was a success, I am worn out, and I am just counting down the 4+ weeks left (or less? maybe? gawd forbid more?) until labor starts. I am going to make some appointments with my acupuncturist and prenatal massage therapist starting next week to encourage this huge, distended uterus to kick into high gear. Because, as much as what comes next intimidates me, I am over being pregnant and ready to get on with it. I want this baby out of me and in my arms.