Ha, take that olive pants, grey tees, and tan trench coat. I'll counteract my love of neutrals by wearing... drumroll, please... more neutrals in the form of taupe flats, simple jeans, my trench coat and POW! a tomato red sweater. Whoopie, I'm bustin' outta the rut!
All joking aside, it's been a mentally challenging week. Kid was still breech at my last appointment a week and a half ago, and, despite lounging upside down, peppermint oiling my upper belly, good posture, wishful thinking and a few ugly cries, the littlest McClure's head is still easily felt anywhere between just to the right of my belly button and banging into my right ribcage. What's worse is that I've seen several of our kidless lady-friends in the last week and they're interested in how the little one is doing- and instead of saying "Hey, they're kicking and wiggling right now- feel!" because that would mean I'm putting their hand into my pants where the kicking is actually happening, I just say "Good. Growing." And nobody gets to enjoy the journey with me. And that's starting to feel really lonely.
So, little stubborn one, please take a spin southward. I will not schedule you a birthdate surgery. I will not invest any more mental energy into worrying. I will not be gutted like a fish for the sake of modern medicine's views on what's easier and convenient for scheduling and padding pockets (I mean, what's "safest" for baby). I want you here safe and I know that's ultimately what matters, however this goes down- but my family is built for baby-making and baby-birthing and I'm sure as shit not going to fold like a scaredy and schedule a c-section just because you got the stubborn gene, too. Just ask your dad- I can play a mean game of chicken. And I'm the mom- so you do what I say, because I said so.
That said- pleasepleasepleaseplease say a quick prayer and send out some really good energy for me and this booger. I'm not quittin' yet, but the 36 week mark is getting dangerously close and my chances kind of plummet after that.