The Final Fruit

Hooray! It's my last trip through the produce department. Baby is the size of a watermelon, and I believe it. Steve says I'm not that big. I really don't know what he expected. There's only one kid in there. I asked if he'd seen bigger baby bumps and he said, "Oh, yeah." Mmm kay. Look who's an authority now. I've taken to referring to my bump as "the medicine ball" because it feels like I'm carrying a big ol' medicine ball with a tiny person tap dancing inside. It's especially heavy when I lie on my back, and rolling from side to side and getting out of bed is a well-thought-out and sometimes painful maneuver. I'm also plagued with nighttime leg cramps that make me think my legs are trying to quit my torso. Other than that, I'm good.

I had an ultrasound a week and a half ago. I've heard how inaccurate they can be at measuring. I've known babies who measured 8-8.5 pounds in an ultrasound, only to be 7 pounds at birth, and I've known babies who measured around 8 pounds and were 9.5 pounds at birth. For what it's worth (clearly, not much), it said that Robinson weighed 6 pounds 9 ounces and his stomach and thigh bone measurements were both in the 50-ish percentile for a 36 week fetus. So he's growing as scheduled. The head measurement was a whole other story. The ultrasound said his head measured in the 97% percentile for a 40 week fetus. This measurement, however inaccurate it may be, has me totally rethinking my baby's exit strategy.

There has been much conversation in our home as to whose head this baby would have. I have a giant pumpkin head, I can't even wear hats. Steve has a peanut head. Steve's not going to be pleased when he finds out I told you that. He's the first one to say he has a peanut head, but for some reason it's only ok if he says it. I've always said we're like Bert and Ernie. Steve isn't amused by this characterization, but dammit it's accurate.

left: me; right: Steve

I haven't seen my doctor in a couple weeks, which isn't typical for this stage of pregnancy, but she went out of town. I hope this means she will be all refreshed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when I see her on Wednesday. Her appointment scheduler said my appointment would be crammed into the mid-afternoon following a surgery, two c-sections, and several other appointments. Her advice: "pack a lunch." Not like I have anything better to do, but the waiting room chairs make my butt hurt. Oh well. I'm just waiting to hear the magic words: "Let's schedule a c-section!" Thanks to all the melanoma and pre-cancerous business I had removed earlier in the year, I already look like I did the tango with Edward Scissorhands. What's one more scar? Especially if my baby's head is bigger than a blue ribbon pumpkin.