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There’s no such thing as nakee sandbox time, either, for the record. I used that as an illustrative example. April 6, 2010

Posted by Erin F. Wasinger in Being a mama.
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I got the worst news ever at the doctor’s office today. Don’t spit out your coffee; that’s a hyperbole.

She said “It doesn’t look like you’ll make it to your due date.” She had her reasons to say that. I had my reasons to cry when she said that, though.

Saying what she said is OF COURSE the surest way to convince my dear fetus to stay put for eight days PAST my due date. THANKS, DOCTOR.

Call me irrational (“irrational”), but because I am so uncomfortable I do not want to hear that there may be an end in sight closer than May 5. I can’t function when thinking about measurements that no one needs to know, or by the optimism she tried to instill in me. STOP IT, I wanted to say. DO NOT GIVE ME FALSE HOPE.

Pregnancy is CRUEL. Pregnancy doesn’t work early. Pregnancy doesn’t care about what I want. Pregnancy is unfeeling.

Maybe the doctor was trying to be helpful (or maybe even honest), but telling a pregnant lady her countdown might be overly conservative is like pumping up the biggest, most fun activity EVER that awaits a toddler before they even have their clothes on. They just jump right over the “put on your pants” part and go immediately to “play in the sandbox.” All those steps in between? IGNORE THEM. Mama didn’t mean them, clearly! Wooooooooo! Sandbox! Nakee sandbox time!!!!! WOOOOOOO!!!!

That’s the level of reasoning my pregnant brain is capable of.

So, May 5, everyone. May 5. Any sign of optimism will be sneered at as a coping mechanism.

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