Wherein the already-strange pregnancy dreams take on a terrifyingly lifelike quality, the “helpful” countdown-to-baby ticker on my target.com registry is in the double digits, and a good night’s sleep has gone the way of the buffalo.
But I won’t complain. It’s my blog and I could complain, but what good would it do me or anyone? There are enough complainers in the world; in fact, I’m Facebook friends with a swath of them who seem to make a competitive sport out of it. And really, there’s nothing to complain about when everything is ticking and kicking along as
it she should. I just kind of wish the primary kicking hours were between 8a-3 pm, instead of 8p-3 am.
Leg cramps? Not so bad. Tendonitis? Major bitch first thing in the morning but doable after I get moving. Aches, pains, and general discomfort? Meh, I guess they’re pretty temporary and I blame most of them on our 100-degree-plus temperatures and the fact that I have a physical outdoor job.*
Even the preggo dreams, which are weird beyond weird, have inspired me–or motivated me out of sheer terror–to get moving on the sort of baby prep that someone more Type A than I would have had done a month ago.
For example, over the weekend I had a dream that I had the little oyster at midnight and the next day I left the hospital at noon, 12 hours after delivery. The baby was sleeping. Three days later, I realized she was still sleeping but that I didn’t know what to do with her when she woke up because I left the hospital too early and no one had had the time to show me how to feed or wash the baby. In my dream I was particularly concerned that, since she had been sleeping for three days, she also hadn’t eaten in three days, which I was pretty sure was weird. This dream made me realize that a birthing class, a book about what to do with a baby once it’s out, and actually having a few necessities like bottles, diapers, and wipes would put my mind seriously at ease.
Last night I dreamed I was hanging out in an old friend’s bedroom (everyone else was doing homework, I was not) and a rat crawled out of her laundry pile and ran up to sit on the side of my face. I figured if I held really still, it wouldn’t maul me, while the other friends there flailed about, panicking about what to do with the rat. I think this dream is telling me to get my brain scans transferred to my o.b. so she can take a look at Martha and we can settle the to-c-section-or-not-to-c-section question for good. Apparently the lingering question is more troubling to my subconscious than I realized.
And of course I’ve had the classic raging river/swiftly moving current/rising tide dream that all books and websites say is indicative of my seriously unprepared state. Hardly comforting, but hardly news. Am confident that acquisition of more baby staples will quell this.
And so we embark on the final trimester. The husband and I have chosen a name we’re really excited about for the little oyster; I revealed to the good congressman and his staff (and his wife) at our last meeting that I’m pregnant and have yet to hear anything from them about the press job so I’m fairly certain I’ll be staying home with the little lady and walking dogs through the fall and winter months; next week I get my RhoGAM shot (in the butt, apparently) and do the glucose screen that my true loves, fruit and lemonade, clearly want me to fail; and then the parents come visit.
And then it’s another month of organizing, washing, setting up, crafting, buying, rearranging, and organizing again.
Then the little oyster arrives.
And then the weird dreams will stop! Ha! Because so will sleep! Sads.
*More on said job later. I’m gathering pictures of some of the dog breeds I’ve worked with so far, and I get distracted by the puppy pictures on Google images.