No, no, I'm still pregnant--pretty sure the title will be in all caps when Littleman decides to quit hemming and hawing.
He's gotta be close. The midwife yesterday said she'd bet on a week to a week and a half. Littleman has celebrated by causing what Gaskin calls "interesting sensations that require all your attention"--aka, painful contractions. (Let's not beat around the bush. It's all Eve's fault anyway. I'm not saying the baby isn't worth it, or that you have to have medication to get through it, or that your attitude doesn't make a difference, but let's be honest--contractions, serious getting-the-baby-down ones, hurt.)
The midwife also said, as soon as she saw me on the table, "oh, yeah, he's definitely dropped", which is a good thing.
So the immanence continues!
Cheers,
Breanna
P.S. My awesome mother-in-law is here this week helping out with the kids; I sit around like a (contracting) slug; and I have to wonder, why on earth did I think this was difficult the first time I did it when there were no toddlers?
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