September 23, 2013

The end is nigh, my son. We are in the last few days, you and I, of being nestled together like a set of Russian dolls.
Despite my coaxing and pleading, and various homeopathic attempts to coax you out of your cocoon early (as per our medical team's insistence), you've hung in there stubbornly. So. This is it. It's Monday morning, and we are going to get a membrane sweep from the midwife this afternoon. And if that doesn't get you in gear, then we have to set up a plan for induction on Friday. Please let's not go that route, kiddo. We are a team. Let's not start off on the wrong foot by not working together here.
Coming out of our previous appointment last week, out on the sidewalk I saw a woman smoking a cigarette while nearby her small son dangled his feet off a bench and slurped on a popsicle. She took one look at me and declared, quite loudly, "Jesus Christ! You are HUGE!" I smiled a tight smile in reply. Then her son chirped out from his perch, "Are you pregnant??"
I looked at him, softening my smile and answered, "What do you think?" He shrugged. "Are YOU pregnant?" I countered. The boy laughed at the crazy idea.
I have to reiterate how much I will not miss these particular conversations. The ones where strangers feel its okay, and in fact feel the need, to tell me just how my body, and I guess by extension your body, makes them feel. I'm tired of being on the receiving end of shocked looks and comments from people I have never seen before and who've not even bothered to ask my name.
Let's make a deal, son. You and me, let's try real hard not to be like the duo we encountered last week. Step one is no smoking, eating popsicles and talking to strangers in Flatbush. And we'll see where that leads us.