Johnny is fashionably late. My due date came and went, but still no baby. Little bearcat seems to be very comfortable in there, something I can't say for myself. My hands and feet have been strangely swollen in the last few days, the hot flashes are killing me, and I noticed that now I quietly grunt whenever I make some physical effort. It would be hilarious if it wasn't happening to me. We did the non-stress test today and everything's perfect, as my doctor just loves to say, but at 40 weeks I am not even slightly dilated or ripened. So, it looks like we will have our May baby after all! The agreement is to induce on May 1st, if things don't get going sooner.
The anxiety is driving me bonkers, so I am resolute not to think about anything baby related at least till the weekend. Instead, John and I are watching 3 episodes of The Big Bang Theory a night, I'm taking 2 hour walks around the hood with my Mom, and I'm rigorously reading classic fiction with the hope to "unlock the traffic jam in my head"* This baby is already true to his Bulgarian-Dragon-Taurus-Pfeiffer nature (read: stubborn) and he will arrive when he decides to arrive, regardless of the amounts of raspberry tea I drink, frequency of the hot baths I take, or the intensity of the sex I have. Frustration would be a normal reaction to being overdue, yet I choose to have some fun and enjoy the calm before the storm. Because, come on! When else I'll have someone - hell, everyone - put my shoes on for me, cook and clean instead of me, and grant me every wish and forgive my every whim, without even making me feel bad about being so pathetically fat?! I'll ride this pregnancy pony till it's done and over, just watch me.
Today we all went to see a football match at the local pub. My Mom rooted for Chelsea, who played a strangely disciplined game against Barcelona, and won it too despite that they had a player less, and despite that John and his friend Brian rooted for them. I could barely concentrate on my burger, let alone on the game, but it was a wonderful time to spend the lunch. It turned out that one of my neighbors works at the pub - her name is Olive and she's Irish. Olive insisted that she treats me to a half-pint of Guinness on the house because she was "one of 13 and my mother only drank beer while she was pregnant. A glass a week guarantees healthy babies!". At that point I have absolutely nothing to lose so I gladly accepted and drank half of the half pint, grinning all the while at this wonderful Irish tradition. Gosh, I miss Europe so badly!
But anyways, next I am planning to finally finish a piece on Stephen King that has been sitting as a draft in my World of Words blog for way too long, to maybe visit San Francisco and show Chinatown to my Mom, and to have a crazy loud rock'n'roll party at home while I still can. That might prompt an 8+ pound baby out!
Sans the Guinness, though - I have always been more of a fan of the Mexican and South American beers, the kind you drink with a piece of lime.
*John Updike once said he wants to write that kind of books.