Are We There Yet?

Today marks 39 weeks and I've had enough fun for one pregnancy. I am ready for this baby to get out of my belly and in my arms. Seriously, it's getting crowded.

Aside from needing a crane to get out of bed and swelling like a tick when the temperature creeps up above 75 degrees, I have two very specific reasons as to why I need to have this baby.

1. My thermometer popped. Just like a Thanksgiving turkey, my belly button has popped out. While lots of people joke about me being "done", they've taken it one step further - poking my new outie. It never bothers me when someone touches my belly (they're just loving the baby), but poking my bellybutton sort of surprises me.

I'd like you to think about the last time you touched another adult's bellybutton. If you're like me, you probably haven't. Here in the Midwest, that's just not something you do. We have strict lines of appropriate touching that include shaking hands and maybe a pat of the back. So, as you can imagine, mine is extra poppy and extra tempting.

2. I might "wreck my car" extra often when I'm pregnant. I'm not sure if I'm simply distracted or if there is truly some medical explanation and I really can't see anymore, but with both pregnancies, I've had two accidents.

Luckily, I'm mostly attacking our garage and not innocent drivers. With Ben, I backed my car out of the garage with the driver's door open crunching it like frat boy crushes a beer can. In fairness, it was a 2002 Toyota Echo and essentially made of plastic (what you let go in safety, you make up in MPGs).

And while we were replacing the door, I forgot to put the rental car in park when I ran in the house to pick up some lunch. I came back to the garage just in time to see the 2003 Intrepid drive into the back wall of the garage. I tried to tell Chuck that the second one wasn't really my fault because I wasn't technically driving. He didn't buy it.

This time around, I sideswiped my van on the donation box at the recycling center. (Yes, weekly I take three giant bins of recyclables and always leave a donation. That's what I get for trying to be a good world citizen).

In the most recent incident, I closed our garage door with the van's liftgate still open. It crashed into the gate three for four times - sensing a foreign object, going up and then coming down again... and again. BTW nice safety measure. What if that were Ben? The door would have crushed him, gone back up, and crushed him again. I haven't told Chuck about this one yet and I may not. Luckily, he still doesn't read my blog.

My point is, that for some reason I am a menace to our vehicles and garage while pregnant and it would less expensive (and better for my marriage) if I wasn't pregnant anymore. So, I looked up ways to go into labor naturally and honestly, didn't like what I saw. Many of the options sounded gross, confusing and even dangerous.
They were so awful, I can't even write about them, so read some of the tamer options here. While long walks are nice this time of year, I can't bring myself to take anything that might cause "horrific diarrhea". And on another site, I read about primrose oil and, um... direct cervical application. In the words of Will Ferrell, "You wouldn't hire a clown to fix a leak in the John would you?"

Since I can't handle those methods, I came up with my own plan:

1. Two-a-days: I'm basically going to condition like a sophomore trying to make the varsity football team. I plan on running our stairs (and by running, I mean huffing and puffing while I waddle around at a pace most would consider "walking at a moderate speed"), set up cones in the back yard and time me and Ben as we run the 40, and scrimmage. Ok, no scrimmaging, but I will be making daily exercise in the morning and family walks in the evening a priority.

2. Raspberry leaf tea: This was one of the less-disgusting options and is supposed to "organize" your contractions. I've been drinking it every day. Ben likes it too. He says, "Mmm, gook tea. Mama tea gook. Mmm, mmmm, mmmm." I'm desperate enough that I look past the floaties.

3. Massage: I've made a date with Keri, my dear friend who is also a massage therapist and hopefully she can hit some points and set things in motion.

Wish me luck. As much as I'm ready to see and hold this baby, I know it will hurt and I'm a little apprehensive (ok - a lot apprehensive).