Today is a big day. At 37 weeks, Baby Moo is officially full-term. Which means she could arrive at any time now and it would be okay. Biologically speaking, that is. I'm still wondering if I'm ready.
I realize this is a monumentally stupid thing to be wondering.
I have my bag packed for the hospital. The camera battery is charged. The car seat is in. The blankets and towels and sheets and onesies and tiny socks have been washed, dried, and folded.
I still have not written a birth plan, and I right now, I don't think I will. I have some ideas in my head about how I would like things to go, but I realize that is really not up to me. And I've decided I'm fine with it. My sister-in-law, who is a labor and delivery nurse, said something interesting to me last week. "Whenever we have a patient come in with a birth plan longer than two pages, we immediately get the operating room ready."
Translation: Those who think they can control the outcome are the ones usually in for a big ass surprise.
I do not want to be one of those people. You know, THOSE people. I imagine these are the same people who stand in line at Starbucks and say, "I'd like a venti, half-caf, mochachockalocka with 2.5 pumps of vanilla and .5 pumps of caramel, no-foam, double whip, with 7 curls of chocolate on top. And two shakes of cinnamon."
I don't think that order even makes sense, but I hear crap like it. It always, ALWAYS makes me want to scream, "You'll get coffee! Black! And you'll like it!"
Or at the very least I would like to see the poor barista snort a wad of phlegm into their recycled coffee cup and say, "And an extra loogie shot for YOU!"
That never happens.
So...I'm going to try to go with the flow. Childbirth wise, that is.
And this Saturday I plan to be in New London, Minnesota to do a book reading and signing for Luella. I agreed to this about two months ago, and now I'm wondering about the wisdom of my decision. Things should be fine; it's not like I'm driving myself out there. My in-laws will be chauffeuring me.
Although if anything does go down, my father-in-law will discover exactly how fast you can drive a Toyota Prius before its teeny-tiny Polly Pocket engine will burst into flames. Teeny-tiny flames and little wisps of smoke. Haven't you always wondered that?
Honestly, I'm all for economical automobiles and conserving gas. But if you are in labor and trying to get to the hospital, you don't want a clown car whose engine you can't even hear when you turn it on. I'm serious. Have you ever been in a Prius? You can't hear the freaking engine. You can't even tell the car is on. It doesn't exactly inspire confidence.
What does inspire confidence? A Mustang. Specifically, a Shelby Cobra with a Twin Paxton Supercharger, 800 horse power and 400 lbs of torque. Not only can you hear the engine when you turn it on, you can feel it vibrate through your whole body, right into your bone marrow. All the way into your spleen.
So here's hoping I don't go into labor this weekend while doing my book reading, and then having the unfortunate task of explaining, "Hey Looky, kids! Babies aren't really delivered by the stork!"
And then turning to my father-in-law and saying, "John, fire up the Prius, we need to burn some rubber back to Minneapolis."
There's a sentence I never thought I'd write.