Check out that dirty mirror, man. Someone should nest around here. Probably won’t be me. One more for the road:

I can’t tell if I’ve dropped just by looking at the pictures. I can’t feel him lower - Josh’s dad asked him the other day if I was waddling yet - apparently when Josh’s mom was pregnant and he finally dropped, that’s when the waddling started.

***

I brought my (ugh) 24-hour urine sample, hidden in three opaque bags because while free-flowing urine on the el is perfectly commonplace (especially on the red line), it is not usually free-flowing from me. Bloodwork done, got to work and made an appointment for Wednesday.

Pregnancy isn’t pretty. I’m thinking back on these 9 months and all of the really weird things that it changes about you (instead of the happy-go-lucky meta type things), like:

- cervical mucus. When you’re trying to conceive, the easiest and most common comparison to judge the quality of cervical mucus is to describe it in terms of eggwhites. “Eggwhite cervical mucus” - ideal condition for sperm to meet their mate. Yech.

- Gas expression. The gas, it freely flows, from both ends, and frankly now I just don’t care. I have very little space in my belly or intestines to keep it in, so I am lettin’ it out.

- Pee envy. When I go to the bathroom 402348934 times a day at work and someone else is peeing next to me, and peeing heartily, I sigh a little and yearn for the day where after I go to the bathroom I’ll be able to leave… and not think about peeing again for at least an hour, instead of right when I zip my pants up. Or not have to pee in a jug for 24 hours, which I’ve had to do twice. Bleh!

- Mucus plug. Need I say more?

At any rate, despite how gross it’s been, I’ve become more zen about this whole two week wait thing today, and I don’t know if it’s because I’ve given up on going into labor anytime soon (I thought waters might have broken yesterday, but… no. And that’s all I’ll say about that!) or if I’m just really having a good day. Parts of me are anxious, parts of me want to slow it all down again. I’m a mess.

I wish my belly had a little pop-up timer that pings when the contents are done, like a turkey. Or maybe a ticker tape that prints out of your vagina like at a carnival with a fortune telling machine that says, “Your baby is now done. Proceed to the hospital and deliver.” How neat would that be?

Until then, I wait.