Pregnancy continues apace. I'm not as worried as usual these days because the midwife has been reassuring and Ren has been increasingly acrobatic, pretty much all the time, and is starting to give the impression of responding to things going on outside the lovely big receptacle that is myself. I write that now, and no doubt tomorrow I'll be worried about something again. But all seems to be going well.
The midwife is pretty sure now I'll be carrying to term, and isn't too concerned about pre-eclampsia. And now that I've hit week 31, I'm a little less concerned about pre-eclampsia and an attendant early delivery too. If I make it one more week to 32, the kid can stay in this little shitburg's hospital until it's ready to go home, instead of heading off to Brisbane. Although there would be worse things than us having to go off to Brisbane,which is the good thing about not being poor. (How do people who are poor survive the worries attendant on pregnancy without going totally batshit? I have a new awe of them.) I could just stay there until it was ready to come home, and so could the F-word. But it looks unlikely to happen now.
One aspect of pregnancy I'm finding interesting is the massive sasquatch poos. I'm not suffering from the constipation most women complain about, and it's not as though I'm having to make an effort, but certainly the pooing is a rather more impressive experience than it used to be. For more or less the first time in my life I'm finding it sort of wrong to just be flushing these progiduous daily evacuations down the toilet without celebrating them somehow. I've had to restrain myself from calling over the F-word to take a look. Some physical mystique must be maintained somehow, or else what will remain to be absolutely and traumatically shattered forever when I go into active labour?
The midwife is pretty sure now I'll be carrying to term, and isn't too concerned about pre-eclampsia. And now that I've hit week 31, I'm a little less concerned about pre-eclampsia and an attendant early delivery too. If I make it one more week to 32, the kid can stay in this little shitburg's hospital until it's ready to go home, instead of heading off to Brisbane. Although there would be worse things than us having to go off to Brisbane,which is the good thing about not being poor. (How do people who are poor survive the worries attendant on pregnancy without going totally batshit? I have a new awe of them.) I could just stay there until it was ready to come home, and so could the F-word. But it looks unlikely to happen now.
One aspect of pregnancy I'm finding interesting is the massive sasquatch poos. I'm not suffering from the constipation most women complain about, and it's not as though I'm having to make an effort, but certainly the pooing is a rather more impressive experience than it used to be. For more or less the first time in my life I'm finding it sort of wrong to just be flushing these progiduous daily evacuations down the toilet without celebrating them somehow. I've had to restrain myself from calling over the F-word to take a look. Some physical mystique must be maintained somehow, or else what will remain to be absolutely and traumatically shattered forever when I go into active labour?
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