My son was served an eviction notice at the 38.5 week mark, which means that as I now approach my 40th week of manufacturing a new human (that, ironically, we will likely spend the next few years threatening to eat) I have unquestionably never been this pregnant before. I’m beginning to feel a bit like a circus sideshow; I think that most women in my condition simply stay home, what else could explain what a spectacle I must be when I go anywhere? Yesterday, I had to go up to the hospital to fill out some paperwork, which led to possibly a new world record of awkward conversations in an hour timespan:
Getting in a cab: “I need to go to the hospital. I promise, I’m not in labor.”
At the information desk: “Can you tell me how to get to labor and delivery? No, I’m not in labor.”
To the employee by the elevator, because I cannot retain basic information in my brain these days for more than twenty steps: “Labor and delivery is on which floor again? No, not for me, I mean, for me, but not today! Omgdebshutupshutup.”
To the stranger who said “Is today the day?!”: [Something under my breath that need not be repeated.]
.. to say nothing of walking into Labor & Delivery, but not to stay. (Although, believe me, I thought about camping out. I mean, being arrested for civil disobedience would be such a great story for my future momoir!)
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