35 Weeks

And then it got awkward. I mean, it had to happen. And I’m officially just over eight months, even using regular math as opposed to the fun-house arithmetic that is “pregnancy math.” (In pregnancy math, 32 weeks = eight months. Because when you’re pregnant, every month is February, I guess? This is how women end up claiming that pregnancy lasts ten months, as if this is a well-kept secret that is clearly a conspiracy perpetrated against womankind. By men, I assume. Who else? I won’t deny... it bugs the heck out of me. I won’t even go into the part about how you’re really only pregnant for 38 out of the 40 weeks of pregnancy...)

So, yes, these days things like rolling over or getting out of bed require a plan. Not, like blueprints and apparatus or anything, but some brief consideration of how I can create adequate momentum to move myself in the direction I would like to go. This is highly compatible with getting up every hour during the night, let me tell you. This reminds me of something that happened yesterday that made me laugh out loud, made Reese check on me, and made my baby’s daddy fret and remind me that I had meant to get some tractiony things for the bathtub. (And he’s right, I have been meaning to do that.) So, after showering, I flipped my head over to put a towel on my head, as one does, and I just... kept going. It wasn’t scary or anything. I just slowly continued to tip until I was on my hands. Too much momentum.

At a little over five pounds, Baby H now weighs as much as a honeydew melon. Of course, at this stage, the weight estimates become pretty generic and potentially misleading. The average baby is a little over five pounds at this stage... but babies can range from six to ten (or more!) pounds at full term, so, you know... we’re ballparking at this point. But we do know he’s pretty close to full length (probably just under 20 inches these days) and all that’s left for him to do is mature his lungs and pack on the fat. Which means I get to eat whatever I want. In the name of fattening my baby. At least, that’s how I heard it.

Now, when you see me, the whole story about momentum will likely make a lot of sense. As you can see, these late weeks of baby-fattening are turning out to be quite belly-enlarging. It’s a wonder I don’t get toppley more often:

In other news, I turned 33 this week. Last night, my baby’s daddy took me out for a date night on the town. I learned two things. The first being that Baby H loves date night with all his might. He danced his way around town, charmed a bartender, and gave the mocktails very positive reviews. It led us to ponder things like... would an infant carrier fit on this barstool? (Aren’t we the best parents?) The second thing was equally unsurprising. And that is that I have more of a “gift” for choosing restaurants that make notably delicious cocktails than for discerning which will have exemplary food. We started at Gitane, where they made me a delicious strawberry-lemon-mint sparkly thing and the baby’s daddy had a potent rum-based cocktail that included ingredients such as grapefruit marmalade and mint-infused orange bitters. They also had a truly special and extensive gin list and, if I’m being honest, gazing at such a truly special and extensive gin selection while eight-months pregnant is something akin to torture for a lush like me. Then we had dinner at E&O Trading Company where I enjoyed a cucumber-cilantro-lime spritz and my date had a really very impressively balanced lemon-thai-basil martini (with gin of course, which is always the right choice). I took the tiniest, barely lip-moistening tastes of the baby daddy’s two cocktails last night and dang. I did good.

Number of people this week who told me I look HUGE: 1 (this really amused me)
Number of people who told me that, if I am a whale, I would have to be a beluga, the most slender and cute of all the whales: 1 (seriously, how nice are my friends?)

Preferred baby birthdate of a chatterbox of a clearly drug-or-alcohol-dependent, questionably homed woman: November 24 (her birthday)
Preferred baby birthdate of my baby’s daddy: 11/11/11, which would also be quite compatible with going into labor on the full moon, which for a space physicist is all just irresistibly nerdy and fantastic
Preferred baby birthdate of Granny J: November 19
Preferred baby name of Granny J and Gumpa: still Oliver. adamantly Oliver.

Number of outfits for Baby H we have selected to take to the hospital: 3
How much other packing for the hospital we have done: none

Number of baby-related classes we have attended: 4
Number of baby-related classes we have on the calendar this week: 2
Irrational thing I have considered worrying about this week: What if I have high blood pressure and can’t tell? Now, this is clearly possibly, because, well, it happens. But it’s sort of random for me to fret over it since I have had low blood pressure at every appointment so far. Like, 100/60 low (which is normal for me, and suggests worrying over this particular thing is, well, kind of silly). Being well-informed during pregnancy is a recipe for unnecessary worry, I find.

How much I am looking forward to being a lady of leisure for at least a week between starting maternity leave and giving birth: so much (I am going to get my hair did in the middle of a weekday! Can you even imagine?)
How much my baby’s daddy thinks I am counting pre-hatched chickens, because clearly I am going to give birth that first weekend after starting leave: so much (and isn’t he a cranky-pants with his glass all half-empty like that?)

Baby H’s favorite things this week: date night; “Harrisburg” by Josh Ritter, as played and sung by his daddy; pretty much everything else too... he has not stopped moving this week