39+1

There are a lot of things that I didn't know about pregnancy, childbirth, babies, or the whole damn realm of parenthood before experiencing it for myself. And I know I'm not the only one, because I once overheard my friend Maria explaining to a group of students as I passed by her classroom how it is determined "how far along" you are. She didn't know this before she got pregnant either, and just this week I found myself explaining it to another colleague, one with whom I never in a thousand years imagined I would be using the words "last menstrual period" in daily conversation. Life is weird and filled with surprises, is it?

Anyway, it turns out that, according to the formula (if you could even call it a formula; it's not more than basic math, really), you're pregnant before you even have the sex that causes you to be with child. How's that, you ask? Well, it's dated from the first day of your last menstrual period, and obviously if you're menstruating, you're not pregnant yet. So, your estimated due date is 40 weeks from the first day of your last period, not actually when you conceived your little embryo.

So here I am, 39 weeks, 1 day pregnant. I've been off work for three weeks, and I feel somewhat sure I've never been so bored in my life. I am pretty sure I know people that would take umbrage at that, as they love their time off more than anything. The thing is, being off work is great, but the problem is that I don't have the energy to fucking do anything. Thus far, I've read a lot of books (not entirely ignoble, but admittedly, it's mostly been the works of Stephen King and Gillian Flynn, who are not, in my estimation, the height of literary laudability [is "laudability even a word? Seriously, though. Is it?] Also, I would LOVE to publish a novel, let alone one as wildly successful as theirs, so please don't take that statement the wrong way. A book is a book is a book, but I probably wouldn't teach Gillian Flynn in my classrooms. Just sayin'), watched a lot of The Sopranos, and spent an embarrassingly large chunk of time playing a really, really stupid game on my phone. Not Candy Crush, but close. (Adam, wonderful husband and life partner that he is, says it's fine to play to games on my phone, and part of me tries to convince myself that it will help keep my brain sharp. In reality, though, I feel it is a massive waste of valuable time in which I could be doing something more constructive. But again, I'm just so tired.) Adam also says, "Why don't you write?"

He is right. He is always right (and has been since Day 1. The door handles at our old condo complex even said so. "Adams Rite" was stamped on every handle. It wasn't properly punctuated or spelled correctly, but the message was the same). And while writing sounded like a good idea, it really didn't interest me at all until this very moment. I imagine he was talking about working on my long-silent novel, which I haven't opened since July 17, but blogging is also writing, so here I am. It feels good to write, even if I'm writing about nothing, and it's likely no one will ever read (possibly with the exception of Ed). Adam himself, who has also not worked in a few weeks, has written nearly 70 pages of a book. Granted, he can walk without waddling, can get off the couch without straining himself, and doesn't fall asleep at the very thought of pillows, but still. I should open that novel. The whole beginning part of it is about late pregnancy, and now that I have experience, I think I could make it a lot better. I'll let you know how things go.

In the meantime, I'll be here with my massive pumpkin belly, counting new stretch marks every day and marveling at how fat I've grown (seriously--if you ever decide to get pregnant, exercise and eat salad. It will be worth it. Back fat, as evidenced by the picture below, is not attractive). Also, I guess this blog is not so anonymous anymore as it just is the ana-log: