I started wearing my centuries-old Nike shox because I’ve stopped having searing pain when they’re on. I had been wearing a pair of black flats which apparently had the support of a concrete floor. I told the doctor at this week’s appointment about this and she said, “That’s strange.”
And in my habit of thinking of responses long after a situation has passed, I regret not asking for clarification–if a doctor calls your situation strange, is she implying that I could be on TLC?! My show would be sandwiched between the 600-lb Virgin and Woman with the World’s Biggest Legs, only it would be called, “Pregnant Woman Switches to Shoes With More Support, Has Epihany. Sorry We Had to Replace Jon & Kate with SOMETHING.”
The doctor measured my stomach and I asked how large TJ would be. She said he would probably weigh about 7.5 lbs, about a pound smaller than Nathan when he was born. Then she said, “You do have a long torso, so a lot of baby can hide in there.”
I breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t order an ultrasound right then because in addition to a baby, I am also harboring a Cisco Network Server, fancy paper shopping bags, a pound of Starbucks houseblend coffee (whole beans), and the planning committee for the next Democratic National Convention.
Then she asked if I wanted to check how dialated I was and since my ankles were up by my ears, she knew she didn’t have to ask twice. She did the ASL sign for “fish” with her hands while the rest of her body undulated in moves I’ve only seen on the episode of Sex and the City when Carrie and Charlotte take an African dance class. She wasn’t my regular doctor so I didn’t feel comfortable asking if she should really be elbow-deep because that seemed a little much, you know?
She said I wasn’t dilating and extracted her arm from my lady parts. She said I’ll likely make it to March 30, my due date which just gives me enough time to complete my play: “Small Cervix, Clown Car Vagina: A Musical of Hope.”