Weeks 6 to 10
My parents visit, bearing treats. I know how serious this situation is to them because they don't complain about all the dog hair. I realize this is a great time to take advantage of their generosity and try to figure out what to ask for. A pony, perhaps?
All the treats in the world can't make up for the fact that I'm in mortal fear of losing my child. It took me a year to get pregnant, and at 34, I'm no spring chicken, reproductively speaking. If I had a miscarriage, I don't know if I could go through another pregnancy. Luckily for me, I have all the time in the world to ponder these cheerful issues.
When you rest all day, you can't sleep at night. Then you go to bed late and begin a vicious cycle, which I'm currently caught in. If there's anything more miserable than sitting home while sunshine streams through the windows, it's watching Maternity Ward at 2 a.m. in a dim living room. By the way, don't watch Maternity Ward when you're pregnant. Just don't.
Seriously though, I'm starting to get very angry at the surprising lack of resources for women on bed rest. I call up a contact at the March of Dimes and whine. "You guys have tons of volunteers, and you're trying to prevent prematurity. Well, helping women on bed rest would certainly do that." She agrees and tells me that it would be a perfect project for their Youth Corps.
The one routine I've managed to get down is watching ER reruns. I've developed a crush on Noah Wyle; at least I've retained enough of my faculties to lust after cute actors. I've sped through 15 novels, hosted Sunday night Sex and the City parties from my couch. I try to remain as upbeat as I can. Easier said than done, as my husband's company is filing for bankruptcy, and my disability benefits cover only 60 percent of my pay. And we still have $1,000,000 worth of baby stuff to get. Looks like that Kate Spade diaper bag is gonna have to wait.
I've been rotating the same four pathetic maternity outfits since time immemorial, but for some reason, I'm not interested in buying stuff for myself. However, I've found that I salivate over pricey French baby clothes as much as I used to lust for pricey French designer clothes for myself. Practicality wins, and I dutifully order diaper cream and Dreft. You're probably wondering why my husband -- or mother -- couldn't shop. My mother is far too superstitious to buy anything for an unborn child, and my husband thinks onesies is some sort of sex game. He's in for a big surprise.
I've finally reached week 30, which means my kid has a chance of being okay if she comes out now. So far, my cervix, uterus, and baby are all behaving themselves. I've also reached a point where my dark roots are so long (and my skin is so white) that I look like a pregnant Goth. I find someone willing to come over and cut my hair.