According to my OB, I am just the picture of pregnant health. *ahembullshitahem* I guess on paper I am fabulous, but she could see the misery all over my face. And my swollen hands and feet. And my sweat-drenched shirt. Cause y'all, I fucking glow.
I got crotch-swabbed today to check and see if I'm a dirty whore with Group B strep. Or, whatever. And I learned that I can be induced at 39 weeks if I am dangling at the end of my rope at that time. Or, still dangling at the end of my rope. For those keeping track at home (and I know you're all keeping journals or pregnancy diaries or whatever to follow my weekly/monthly/trimesterly exploits since they are so exciting!), that's in 2 weeks and a couple of days. I can do that. I can manage to not die for roughly 2 more weeks. Of course, the OB cheerily told me, hey! you could go early! I did with all of mine! And I dryly explained to her how the universe is quite practiced at making me her cosmic bitch, so I anticipate no such luck. Next week I think I get probed for a cervical check, so hopefully there will be some activity down below to encourage me. If my body is at least trying to possibly maybe consider preparing for labor, I won't feel so bad about the begging for induction routine.