At today’s appointment, I told the nurse, if I don’t have a baby, can I at least have a diaper bag or any other free sample. At 40 weeks, I don’t have any shame. And I need a prize.
At 40 weeks, my tiny cervix is “unfavorable,” like not enough people voted for it on American Idol and Simon Cowell’s still harping over my cervix’s botched cover of The Rolling Stones’ “Beast of Burden.” Sorry, America, it’s a cervix, not a soprano.
So we will wait. I have another appointment next week. And after that we’ll talk about induction, hopefully in labor and delivery and not the Hall of Women Who Are Pregnant Forever.
I’m jealous of the women who make it through pregnancy with their skin stretch-mark free, their nipples translucent strawberry pink, not like mine–the black saucered eyes of a bush baby. Their armpits also a milky color whereas mine look like dark brown leather elbow patches on a professor’s tweed jacket. Your lives must be nice! You must always find parking! Your hair must always be shiny! Your only complaint is that your postpartum breasts are so mammoth, you have to wear a “large,” which has never happened to you before!
And how can my cervix be unfavorable?!? I’m sure lots of people would favor my cervix over say, running a marathon while holding Gene Shalit’s hairy nutsack. What do you think of my cervix now?!?!