10 Days Until the Blessed Arrival of the Beast

There is nothing worse than getting to the final few weeks of your pregnancy, where every cramp gives you the promise of hope that something might be getting started. That something might lead to your legs up in stirrups as a human head exits from your womanhood. And you sit and wait, and you wait some more, and then you curse, and then you say, well I can sleep. But then you say, I don’t want to sleep, I just want her out of the belly. But then you are like, but sleep is pretty awesome. Yeah, maybe this thing was a bad idea from the get go. Too late to rethink it? So basically I am descending into a slow insanity. Trying to busy myself, but having no pure thought into what to do, because my mind is pregnant. And pregnant brain has one thing on its mind – baby. So it tends to wander to you know the baby, and then you are at square one, but you made brownies to comfort you. On my doctor’s appointment on Monday it was revealed that I am now 80% effaced, and almost 2 cm dilated. Which one would think actually means something, but then you read on the great Google that it means absolutely nothing. Pretty much babies come when they are damn well ready to come. The frustrating part for me is the entire bed ridden status. One would think that if one is put on bed rest it is to stop impending labor, so that when one is off of bed rest, one would have said labor. Not that I truly expected this to happen considering after a ten week stint with Owen, he arrived eleven days late. So basically, John and I have determined that I have the strongest short cervix known to man. Although slight in size, it is able to carry the burden of baby. Its wrestling name will be The Wee Warrior. But I thank my cervix for a job well done, but it can stop already. Because cervix, I am laying you off. Times are tough, and I am going nutty. You are being let go, so please let go yourself and let this kid arrive already. Actually I think this is all stemming from my first trimester and second trimester desire to have this baby on St. Patrick’s Day. Those trimesters are full of magic, and not reality. It is then when you are like – how fun would it be to have a baby on St. Patty’s Day named Maggie McCall? But Third Trimester Cassie is all – Baby get the hell out of me, seriously, your time has come. Do you see that, no seriously, look right there by the light. Its another pink outfit, for you! Don’t you want to wear it? Your mother would really like to walk four steps without her pants falling down and her ass being exposed. Do me this solid, and I swear to God, you can totally stay up late on New Year’s 2015. But nope, I continue to wait, and wait, and wait. What will the next few days bring aside from me analyzing every cramp like a Lost fan on Benjamin Linus’s raised eyebrow, nothing. I know this, but still I cling.