How Can Someone This Round Be So Completely One-Dimensional?

By Megan

OHMYGRANNY people. Friday, the pregn-o-meter rolled over to 37 weeks, and I rolled over to not being able to roll over without the involvement of a crane, a couple shots of WD-40 and a 20-pack of ball bearings.

The Mama, she is chock full of baby and I mean that in every sense. So chock full in fact that certain parts of my anatomy previously happy to reside in their rightful and respective places on the inside of me have recently made for the nearest exits and taken up residence on the outside of me, where they seem as awkward and uncomfortable as Opie Cunningham at a Hell’s Angels rally.

(And I am not going into any further details about that here, but if you hang around after my formal comments, I’ll happily share them openly and colorfully over donuts and coffee.)

My mind is equally as chock full of thoughts of labor, birth and all things baby-related. When you add the anticipation and wonder over the whens and wherefores of all that’s on the near horizon to my considerable laundry list of gestationally-induced discomforts, what you’ve got is a woman who’s pretty much useless to those around her except as a very large and appropriately un-reactive doorstop.

I’m completely consumed, daydreaming of Peanut’s arrival and the joys of holding my tiny, sweet-smelling newborn in my arms while simultaneously redistributing all of my internal organs into the space he’s just evacuated with a hearty and heartfelt Aaaaaaaaah.

I was called upon to be social a couple of times this past week, as life around me just keeps keeping on even though I’ve been frantically poundin’ on the Pause button since about Week 34, and I went and filled a chair (to capacity, allow me to assure you) on each of those occasions, but had little to contribute beyond that, so preoccupied was I with all my heavy maternal waitin’ and wonderin’. Every conversation around me led me back to Peanut. Moms and dads comparing notes about their kids’ first days of city league football practice had me throwin’ two protective mother-paws over the belly and swearing in my head that as God is my witness, this little boy of mine will play tennis! Or ping pong! Or — CHESS!

Later, a quick glance down while listening to The Bunco Girls’ lighthearted banter about their pretty, brightly-colored, flower-bedecked toes courtesy of the local Nail Spa sent me off into sudden panic thinking ACK! I cannot put my feet up in stirrups lookin’ like THIS! I wonder if I’ll have time to get somethin’ done about ’em before I go into labor?! Or should I wait another week? And what about my hair? After the baby comes, it’ll be months before I can unlatch myself from him long enough for a trip to the salon. Mebbe I should make an appointment right away?

At home, I’m sadly not much better. Bean and I spend our days in this weird suspended state of inactivity, her three-year-old mind struggling to figure out why Mama’s been staring blankly out the wndow for the past 20 minutes not sayin’ a word. And I know she’s scratching her little curly head wondering how the same television that three weeks ago was the absolute Scourge of Humanity suddenly became as beloved and welcome a Nanny around here as Mary Poppins herself would be.

(Hurry, Nanny! Many thanks, Megan and Her Angst.)

My husband, the best pep-talker I’ve ever known, delivered another one of his doozies to me last night as I waffled on damply and pathetically about what a lousy mother, wife, and friend I’ve been lately, in my hazy, distracted, not-quite-all-here state. The message in this one wasn’t quite what I’m used to hearing from him, but darn it if it wasn’t exactly what I needed to hear.

Honey, he said, You’re a GREAT wife and mother. But champions win GAMES, not necessarily every play. You’re the kind of person who always wants to go for it on 4th and 1. Heck, you consistently go for it on 4th and 20. But sometimes, you just. gotta. punt. You’re 40 years old and 37 weeks pregnant. Punt, already!

Sigh.

Okay. I’ll punt.

Only… Aw, geez.

Would somebody please tie my cleats for me?

Megan is the owner and author of FriedOkra, a blog about parenting, the South, comfort food and many other good things in life.