On a hunch, I checked my ultrasound stats, and they placed the due date at 12/22 instead of 12/20. Back in July, those two days were a statistical blip. I feel it keenly now, I assure you. He feels it too. He knows he's just received an extension on his lease. Ha ha, Mom, you thought I was moving out of your basement? I'm covered until age 26 now!
I'm nervous about leaving the house and I'm nervous about any impending signs of labor, because it's almost past hoping that I should have another miracle painless labor like last time. I'm trying to avoid any of the orgasmic bullshit by remembering that things could be worse. Labor is better than living in a North Korean prison camp. It's easier than being one of the North American martyrs (bonus photo of previous baby boy in that post). And it ought to be over quickly, because although I'm not dilated yet, apparently my cervix is thinned to the point where once labor starts, I'll be at 5 cm already. And now I'm nervous about catching the baby myself because everyone is off somewhere when I realize that I really have to push.
Despite laying around, I've not been idle recently. I spent portions of last week snuffling over Mrs. Gaskell's North and South, and then I binged on the 2004 BBC adaptation featuring Richard Armitage as John Thornton, which means I feel no pressure to see him as Thorin in the reputedly craptastic second installment of The Hobbit: The Desolation of Literature. On the other hand, now I'm scouring Youtube for the older BBC version of North and South with Patrick Stewart. With hair.
Maybe this baby will have hair and not be bald like his brother was for so long.
Also, I risked my blood pressure by running out to Wal-Mart and buying a TV antenna so we could watch the live broadcast of The Sound of Music a few weeks ago. It was fun to see the sets and get a bit of the thrill of live theater, but were there no better actresses than Carrie Underwood to play Maria? On the other hand, it afforded me a day or two of innocent amusement as I mentally restaged and rechoreographed the Do, a Deer scene. Why are the kids all standing around in a cluster? That doesn't make any sense, even in the world of musicals. Why not use the scene to dramatize the conflict going on instead of being a cute singalong set piece? After Maria tells the children, "At ease," chaos breaks loose. Liesl throws herself on the couch and starts reading a magazine because she's too cool for a governess, the younger kids start ransacking Maria's belongings (how they find the guitar, after all), Gretl hangs on her, the boys start scuffling over something or other. Maria has to get their attention, which she tries to do by teaching a song, but no one except the youngest are paying attention (except maybe Friedrich, who might secretly want to learn the guitar but won't show it). Maria gets up to "Do re mi fa so la ti...", realizes that hardly anyone is paying attention and she can barely hear herself, and blows the whistle. Everyone jumps up and stands at attention where they are, Maria is a little appalled at the instant result and shoves the whistle back into her pocket, and says, "Let's make this easier," crosses downstage, and...
But I could go on and you're already tired of this. I'm now ready to direct The Sound of Music for schools or community theaters; rates on request.
Also, while sitting around in bed I wrote Christmas cards. I like writing a note in each card; I like getting fancy with the lettering on the envelopes; I like seeing what designs the girls will draw on the back of each. Alas, about 2/3 of the way through my list my hand was too numb to keep going, and after a few days, when I was back to being able to write, the moment of virtue had passed. Now I'm crocheting baby an afghan, which is pacifying my creative impulses while pinching the same nerves as card writing does. I did try a little painting when Darwin was cutting in the corners of our bedroom, but that accelerated the hand numbing process so much that I had to give it up after half an hour.
The room is still halfway painted. Perhaps baby is waiting for his backdrop to be finished before he deigns to appear.
Oh, the library ceiling is almost finished, for those keeping track at home. Darwin will take some photos with his new camera, which, though nice, was the lamest Christmas present ever. "Just pick something out and buy it for yourself, hon," I said, my inspiration shattered and any memory of my dear husband's past year worth of desires, wishes, or vague hopes erased by the constant pressure on my joints and bladder. Sorry, hon. I love you, and I'll really buy you a birthday present. I mean it.
But baby, all I want for Christmas is you.