Today I saw my doctor for the first time since my birthday. I had him sandwiched in between a trip to meet a pediatrician and a massage. Plus I had to pick up a few packages at the post office, one of which turned out to be our new vacuum which I hauled home strapped onto my little granny cart. A trying morning.
So Dr. Max snaps on his glove and delves in for a looksee. I see his eyebrows shoot up, and then he says "Ah ben, dis donc." This literally means "Ah, well, you say then." Or, in other words "Well, I'll be" or something like that.
The hand comes out, the glove snaps off. "You are 50% effaced and 1 cm dialated. The baby's head is right there. You're ripe. It could happen tonight, or in 2 weeks."
For future reference, if you ever want to put someone into a panic, saying any of those above things to a pregnant woman who thinks she's got a good 2 weeks to wrap things up will meet your goal.
I don't know if it was learning that the end is in sight, or if it really is happenning, but I've got a uterus that's been contracting all day, off and on, here and there, sometimes a bit uncomfortable, sometimes not noticeable.
What's a girl to do? Everyone knows the real problem here: The damn World Cup final is on Sunday. Dr. Max said "no one will be there Sunday. They'll just give you a wooden spoon to bite on until after the game is over." He chuckled at his own joke. I did not. "You don't understand" I cried out. "I can't go into labor before this game. I need my husband's help in this thing, and I'm not gonna have his attention until after this game is over, one way or the other." Dr. Max smiled and patted my hand "Do not worry."
Easier said than done.
