I remember when they first told me my due date, it seemed so far away. June 18th? 2014? I remember thinking, “How will I ever make it to that day?” Well, now that day is here, and I’m both overly prepared and not ready in the least.
Funny story though: as much as we were fixated on this day for the past 9 months, it may not be entirely accurate. At one of my perinatal appointments, a doctor made the offhand comment that it was weird they were using my LMP to calculate due date since I was an IVF patient. I guess I just never questioned how it was being determined. The due date of 6/18 comes from my 9/11 LMP, but when I went online and found a special IVF pregnancy due date calculator and put in the 5-day blast transfer date of 9/28, it came out with a due date of 6/16. Which means she’s been late since Monday. Whatever. Either way she’s not here yet and there’s not much I can do about it.
Several times a day I try to wrap my head around the fact that I’m about to meet my daughter, and that my life will never be the same again. Yes, I’m feeling impatient, but I’m also feeling so overwhelmed with emotion that it takes my breath away. And yes, I can wait a few more days. No matter what, she is on her way. She will be here by Monday at the absolute latest. That is INSANE.
For someone freaking out over not being ready a couple weeks ago, now I think I’m way too ready, and it’s making me do strange and obsessive things. For example: we have two dogs, one of whom is a serious shedder. Not the Golden Retriever with the long, luscious blonde coat – oh, no. The culprit here is the little mutt with the short, wiry white hairs that fall out constantly and stick to everything. The couch. Our clothes. The rug. Everything. Everywhere. Usually dog hair bothers me in an offhand way, and I vacuum once a week (or even stretch it to 10 days), but for some reason it has become the bane of my existence as of late. Like, I’ve been vacuuming DAILY (unheard of). Eric is convinced I’ve lost my mind, and maybe that’s true. Last night, about 20 minutes after my nightly vacuuming session, I took it one step further. He was in the kitchen when this interaction transpired.
(from the living room): SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK!
Eric: “AMANDA! what are you doing in there?”
(from the living room): SQUEAK! SQUEAK!
Amanda: “…nothing” SQUEAK!
Eric: “I swear to God, if you are lint rolling the couch…”
Amanda: “I’m not lint rolling the couch.” SQUEAK!
“I’m not.” SQUEAK!”
Amanda: “…OK. I’m definitely lint rolling the couch.”
This is my life, folks.
I’m half tempted to just shave the damn dog. The Furminator does a great job getting rid of the undercoat, but even daily brushing does nothing to reduce the endless piles of hair. I get inexplicably angry when I see Eric’s black athletic shorts and black hat covered in little white hairs. The couch is dark green, so the hair stands out offensively. And I don’t know, at this moment the thought of bringing my baby home into a den of dog hair is just yucky, and furthermore, inexcusable. I cannot abide it.
I THINK that my brain is picking a problem of a manageable size (dog hair) and focusing on that, rather than dealing with the real issue at hand, which is so huge that it really can’t be conceptualized (a baby is coming. A real, live, human person is coming to live with us forever. Also, that person is going to painfully extract herself from my body).
But also, the dog hair is gross.
I need more lint rollers. Preferably ones that don’t squeak so I can indulge my secret obsessions privately.
More likely than not, this will be my last post before THE POST. So, the next time I check in, I don’t think I’ll be worrying too much about dog hair anymore. Or maybe I will. I have no idea. I’m freaking out.