I am totally psychologically prepared to go past my due date. Mentally all psyched up to wait for Perquackey for two more weeks. No problem.
But physically, I just don’t think I can do it.
I hurt. I’m having real contractions, not the painless Braxton Hicks kind. These start in my back and come around to the front and feel like the worst menstrual cramps ever, with a electric jolt of bladder pressure added for good measure.
I’ve been having them all day, which would seem like a sign of impending labor if I hadn’t had them for five hours on Saturday and for hours on Monday, too.
Everything is kind of breaking down around my body, too: my feet are swollen up like marshmallows, I’m peeing every 15 minutes, and I’m eating a little crazy, like it’s the first trimester again. Why yes, I did have cereal three times yesterday. No, I would not like to eat any of your crazy green vegetables.
I’ve been giving the baby pep talks every time I have a contraction. “Come on, little guy! Just like that! Give me another one! Oh yeah, you can do it!”
Come on little guy, don’t you want to come out and meet your pretty new girlfriends?