…is for Gabriella to come.
…is for Gabriella to come.
Before the Internet the local reference librarian is where I would often turn for help but somethings are too awkward to ask.
Could you help me locate some information on the External Os?
Os, Oscar-Sam, Os.
Hmmm. Sam, Oscar. Have you tried Biographies?
Possibly, I should have taken more science classes in my youth rather than loading up on Art and Music while backfilling my schedule with Comparative Literature. However, I am getting a crash course in female reproductive anatomy that goes beyond the highlights offered in the pages of Stuff and Maxim. In this case I learned that they cervix is not really an opening but rather a tube with two separate openings referred to as the Internal and External Os. News to me.
Moving right along to the section filed under TMI; Management is progressing along with contractions becoming more regular and frequent The external is at 2 cm but the doctor could not gauge the internal because, as another doctor earlier in the pregnancy so eloquently put it, “Your cervix is like the Holland Tunnel. No matter how much you might wish otherwise it is still a long way to the other end.” Now that I know how the cervix is constructed that comment makes much more sense.
Anyways, long story short: we continue to wait.
High strung would be an understatement as I am thrumming like a piece of twine stretched too tight. A buzz has settled over my mind rendering my thoughts a touch incoherent, making my movements twitchy and nervous, and leaving a sour knot in the bottom of my stomach. We stand only six days from our due date but I feel wound as if we are six days past it and the well meaning of others has not helped either.
“You’re still here?!”
“What? No baby?”
“She’s so big! I’m sure it’s a boy and not a girl!”
“Ha! In a couple of weeks you’ll wish you didn’t do this!”
“Oh no! Watch that doctor because when the baby is that big they can make mistakes and your baby could end up with a palsy of some sort.”
How do I put this nicely? Shut-The-Fuck-Up. The last thing I need is to hear your theory on how the sex of the baby is different, especially after we and our family have sunk thousands of dollars into girl’s clothing, toys, and items. On the same line, no I do not think we’ll wish we made a different choice in a couple of weeks, though I am wishing I had made a different choice with regards to engaging in a conversation with you. As for telling me that something could happen to my baby during delivery, you don’t think I don’t already know that? Do you really believe that I want to even entertain that discussion at this moment, let alone with you? Seriously, what is the matter with you.
Today’s song is “The Message” brought to you by GrandMaster Flash & the Furious 5.
My thumbs are sore from the amount of twiddling that I have been doing this past couple of days and at this point the remaining days seem to be stretched out in from of me like so many hills to be climbed. Sleep still remains an elusive creature always remaining just out of grasp as the alarm clock glows an unsympathetic red shaving off minutes from when the next day will start. Granted my burdens are less than Management’s, particularly watching her struggle to pull herself out of a seated position or attempting to lower herself gently into a chair, but this closing days seem so much longer than any other I have watched tick by.
Since there is nothing left to do with Gabriella’s room I have begun obsessively organizing things around the house and have developed a nervous tic with regards to dishes in the sink needing to either wash them immediately or put them right into the dishwasher, “Are you done with that glass? Give me that spoon. I don’t care if you are still eating your cereal!” Very likely next on my list will be vacuuming every time I walk across the living room and dusting the wood stacked near the fireplace. At the very least it will give my thumbs a rest from working feverishly over each other.
I’ve managed, during this wait, to move beyond the anxiety of becoming a father to the anxiety of not being a father yet. Interesting transition that and I find myself looking very forward to celebrating our fist Mother’s Day and Father’s Day (Hallmark must love that, a curmudgeon converted). The idea of being called “Dad” has great appeal.
It is getting close. Probably very close. Management has been experiencing increasing pressure and contraction-like symptoms, which the doctor at today’s appointment said should be changing over to actual contractions soon. In the past week, the baby has dropped considerably and having spent the past month as a giant belly with arms and legs jutting out Management has cleavage again. So increased contractions and re-appearing cleavage all point to go-time.
Bags are packed and the nursery is nearly all set, just the valance needs to be hung and the bassinet assembled. Sleep is elusive. Every time Management rolls over, sighs, or just twitches in bed has me snap awake, hand on car keys, and feet slipping into my sneakers. I am primed for a Hollywood style labor, one that involves driving reverse down the highway, eluding befuddled mobsters, as we try and get to the hospital on time. For certain, I need sleep.
The toughest part for me is the waiting. I sit and I wait. I wait and I sit. Sure, I’m doing all of the cooking, cleaning, and general catering to, but overall I’m feeling pretty useless as if there is something more I could be doing. She has the tough job and I’m hanging around like some slack-ass K-Fed wannabe. Hopefully, she won’t be cutting me loose via a text message.
Back to thumb twiddling.