Thirty-eight weeks pregnant and the nasty indigestion is back. Papaya enzymes don’t work. Or maybe it would be worse without them. Starving but I can’t figure out what to eat. Feeling whiney about the whole thing. A thousand disorganized contractions.
“You make it look so glamorous,” Sia says.
I’m inspiring I.U.D.s all over town.
I read stories on the internet about women giving birth on trains, in department stores. I remember the girl who had her baby in the movie theater where I worked when I was a teenager. She didn’t seem to know she was pregnant, let alone in labor.
I am all too aware.
I can’t go anywhere without someone gasping wide-eyed, “Are you going to have that baby TODAY?”
I recount my strange daily symptoms over nonalcoholic beers and wax nostalgic about how simple my pregnancy with Maia seemed. I think it was because I was a teenager, had that strong teenage body. Maria thinks it had more to do with blissful ignorance. “We are suffering from too much information,” she says.
This may be true, but I am also suffering from too much indigestion, too many contractions.
I was born two weeks early. I remind the little sprout of this fact, tell him it’s not so bad. You don’t have to wait for your due date, I tell him. Still, he waits.
Last week, Maia’s friend crashed into Maia’s car. The insurance company wants to total it, but they’re taking their own sweet time. Not sure how Maia is supposed to get to college. I’d drive her, of course, but the baby is due that day. Not sure which scenario sounds less wise: Driving 1,000 miles 40 weeks pregnant or driving 1,000 miles with a newborn. It’s not going to happen.
But I have a new column in Skirt Magazine. Maybe you’ll like it.