37 weeks and 6 days. But who's counting?
Yesterday Greg and I went to see the doctor. It was a doozy of an appointment with a nonstress test, a growth ultrasound, and a regular doctor's visit. Three in one, let's do this!
I felt a bit uneasy the entire appointment. I'm not sure why, I just felt like everything was going to go wrong any second. You know how you can just tell when things seem a little bit off? That's how it felt. During the ultrasound, doc said that baby still isn't as big as she should be. She continues to measure behind- especially her stomach and legs. Most likely she is healthy, but it is hard to tell if she is getting the nourishment she needs in my belly. My placenta is doing a pretty crappy job, apparently. The baby has also got what the doctor so affectionately calls a "north south problem"- meaning she's still breech. (I can't tell you the number of handstands in the pool I've done. And for nothing!)
"From here, our best option is to deliver the baby sooner rather than later," explained the doctor. "We need to try to turn her, and the bigger she gets, the harder it is to turn her- the less space she has." Greg and I stared blankly at him, not saying a word. What exactly dis this phrase "sooner rather than later" mean?
"In addition, at this point she is far along enough and healthy enough that we can deliver at any time," doc continued. "It may be better to deliver now and then monitor her nourishment outside the womb, that way we can ensure she is getting all the nourishment she needs, instead of not knowing for sure while she's still inside."
More blank stares from me and Greg.
"So... when would this be?" I asked.
"Likely within a week."
"Yes. A week. The absolute latest we would let you go is 39 weeks, so... a week and a half max."
"We're not ready at all!" I told the doctor. As if that had anything to do with it.
He gave a chuckle and poked fun at us just a bit, "Well, you did know you were pregnant, right? I mean, hopefully the news that you are having a baby is not a surprise..."
Touche, doc. Touche.
I suppose the thing is that because I was measuring small the whole pregnancy, we erroneously thought that meant that I would have the baby late. We have always been a couple weeks behind so in our minds that meant the baby would arrive a couple of weeks behind. Makes sense, right? Anytime someone asked us the due date we'd stupidly say, "July 25, but she won't come until at least a week after that, probably the first week of August." Yes, because we are the experts on when our first baby will decide to make her appearance into the world. Oh, what a couple of idiots we are.
We ended the appointment with the doc telling me to schedule an appointment with the perinatologist- the special ultrasound guy- for a second opinion. So that's where we ended up- with another doctor in another building in another dark room with more warm squishy gel slathered all over my stomach. Doc #2 said yes, baby needs to come by at least 39 weeks and have a great day!
I thought I had at least 3-4 more weeks to get ready for baby. No big deal, no hurry, take it easy, all these other stressed out pregnant women just need to chillax, I was thinking. But nope. Instead of in four weeks, I will have my baby in one week... 39 weeks is a week from tomorrow. A WEEK FROM TOMORROW.
The rest of yesterday was basically a frenzy. We have SO much to do before the baby comes. We wanted so badly to be in our home when she arrived, but that will definitely not be happening. So now we have to get ready to welcome her home here, in our little one bedroom apartment. We need a place (or thing?) where she can sleep, diapers, onesies, pacifiers, car seat stat! There was so much to do, but as soon as we got home I rushed from room to room like a chicken with its head cut off, accomplishing absolutely nothing. My mind couldn't focus on any one thing long enough to think logically or coherently about what action needed to follow, so naturally I just started washing and folding baby clothes like a mad man until I realized I had absolutely nowhere in our little apartment to put said clothes. I then flipped out on Greg, started a dishwasher that was nowhere near full and finally fled to the grocery store to buy a box of otter pops.
In other words, I've got the mom thing totally figured out.