Toenails & Mucous Plugs

Yesterday, I passed what the doc believes was some or all of my mucous plug. I won’t indulge you with the details (beg all you want, still no) but I believe this mucous-plug-passing business is actually God’s way of easing you into the idea of slimy grotesque things oozing out of your vagina. She (God, that is) also apparently enjoys the element of surprise. That God… such a kidder. (Get it, “kidder”…. no? Oh, bite me- like you’re Dane Cook.)

At any rate, I pass this goo and think to myself “Self, you are only 32 weeks along… maybe you should call the doc.” So I did. And they ordered me into the office for an internal exam. One would think I’d be cringing and gritting my teeth because now the on-call doctor would be putting a metal instrument and a couple of gloved fingers inside of my intimate areas. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t excited about that part, but my first real thought was “OH MY GOD, THEY’LL SEE MY TOENAILS!” See, the boots I had on (one of only two pairs of shoes that fit my water balloo- I mean, feet) tend to get a bit malodorous. And that makes the trouser socks under them stinky. Which means there was no way I was putting my feet in stirrups, stirrups that would be right near the doctor’s head, without removing both boots and socks AND washing my feet in the bathroom right after I peed in the Dixie cup. But underneath those boots and socks? Dear sweet lord of the Twinkies…I can’t SEE my toes, much less reach them well enough to apply polish with any precision. I haven’t had time for a pedicure in weeks. In other words? My piggies were going “EWWWWWW!!!” all the way home. Chipped off polish, uneven edges, etc. etc… like I should be going barefoot in a gas station bathroom… to get condoms…for my Mom.

So what did I do? This is SC, I apologized of course. The sweet, kind (and skinny, perfectly made-up, might I add) nurse and doctor come in and I start babbling about how I’m so sorry for the state of my toenails and I can’t paint them myself and Husband offered, but that scares me and there’s no time for a pedicure because work has been crazy and I wasn’t anticipating having anyone SEE them today and I normally keep them so well done…… blah, blah, blah… Like a Mary Kay lady on meth, I was. To which the doc replies “Well, the important question is… did you shave your legs?”

Of course. I got Dr. Smartassypants. Yeah, he was kidding and meant absolutely no harm. He’s a big sweet gentle old giant of a man whom I actually like very much. But people, I am 8 months pregnant. NO SENSE OF HUMOR here. At least not where my declining beauty regimen standards are concerned.

But yes, I had shaved my legs. Might have missed a few spots trying to work around my insanely large child, but an “A” for effort, I assure you.

The rest of the visit told us this:
No, I am not dilating or effacing, so no imminent danger of early delivery.
Yes, the child is still huge. Estimated at 4 lbs. 6 oz. yesterday- on par with a 35 week baby.
She has hair. Lots of it. This prompted her father to ask “Honey, is there something you want to tell me?” Because he and I? Cue balls at birth.
The ultrasound tech said (ominously) “you’ll be coming back to see me…” and what she means is a 37-week ultrasound to determine exactly how freakishly enormous my daughter has gotten. And what that will mean for my delivery options.

Until then, my Mom has started the Baby Betting Pool. When will she come? How much will she weigh? We have everything from December 10th at just under 7 lbs (from baby Sister… she loves me…) to my Dad who says January 7th at 9 lbs. 12 oz. (clearly my father is holding some kind of grudge).

What do you say? I mean… other than “gee thee to a nail salon!” Here, let me distract you from my gnarly smelly toes with cute ultrasound pictures!