Got a few things to cover in today’s post, where we’re now at 40 + 2 weeks, but firstly you’ll be pleased to know I survived today’s stretch and sweep. Mainly, I think, because it wasn’t actually completely possible. Ingrid started things off well, telling me that I was ‘positively glowing’, which I was pleasantly surprised to hear, specially as what I was actually doing was sweating my tits off. She followed it up quickly by asking Eamo if he’d been working inside a lot because he looked particularly pale, which made me chuckle so much I almost dropped my wee sample.
Had the usual checks, stomach measurement (38cm) and she thinks little’un is led with spine to the left, head down, so all good. Baby’s head still not engaged though. Little tinker. Her words, not mine. The words in my head were slightly more brutal, as you can probably imagine.
Ingrid offered me the stretch and sweep so, keen to get things moving, I agreed. Then it was a case of cacks off, ankles together and legs at quarter-to-three. As she rummaged around in my undercarriage, she used a lot of weird medical words to explain what she was doing and why. I’m not going to lie, it was hard to concentrate on anything other than feeling her poking my cervix, but was I understood from it was…
My cervix is pointing the right way (who the fuck knew it had to ‘point’ anywhere?!)
My cervix is about a centimetre dilated.
One ‘door’ is open, the other is not, hence why my cervix is only open a small amount and she was unable to get her fingers in it to ‘stretch and sweep’.
It wasn’t painful. Just weird. And that was mainly because I was having a conversation with a woman I’ve only met a handful of times while she had her hand stuck up my nether regions. The appt ended with her telling me I had to go home and have an ‘almighty orgasm’ to help get things going. Having been somewhat starved of sex for the past nine months, I wish I could’ve captured the excitement on Eamo’s face.
Now, don’t worry, I’m not going to blog about what has happened since we got home (it was a brilliant 35 seconds babe ;)). But what I will say is that sex when you get to a certain point in pregnancy, i.e. the point where simply moving being hard work, has honestly got to be the most awkward/least sexy thing ever, or is it just me? I’m talking feeling like a hippo wallowing/possibly stuck in mud type thing, but without any of the fun. I genuinely have no idea how, looking and moving about like that, Eamo still finds me sexy enough to want to be intimate. But he’s dedicated to the cause, I guess 😉 Aaaaanyway, enough about sex (sorry mum).
We’ve *cough* done all we can do now. If all that doesn’t stir things up, I have an appt on Wed for another stretch and sweep. And then another on Monday if there’s still no sign. My diary is real bag of sweeping goodies this week. CAN’T WAIT! 😉
Before we went to the hospital today, Eamo and I nipped into Sainsbury’s to see about some snacks to put in our hospital bag. We ended up leaving with nothing, instead having almost had a full on domestic about what snacks to actually buy. When I suggested some cereal bars he said he thought we’d got some at home already. It was at that point that I, quite proudly, told him I’d eaten half the packet already. He was not amused. This coming from the bloke who buys two packets of cookies (big ones, I might add) when he goes shopping because one isn’t enough. He then proceeded to tell me that I was ‘being quite snappy today’, so we left before I cracked him over the head with the nearest box of Go Aheads.
So my question to you, my friends, is what the fuck snacks do or did you take to hospital? If any?
Off to Hollywood
No, not the place. Sadly. We already know that I’m in the habit of sharing too much, and these next few paragraphs are no exception. As you also know, I haven’t seen my lady garden for quite some time now and knew it was getting a bit out of hand, er, down there. So I made the decision, actually, I’m lying, I went to get a foot massage at the same time my friend Bex when to get her own bush tended to (not in the same room, you understand, Sacco Beauty is not that kind of place) and was bullied into making an appt to get a ‘Hollywood’. I’m sure you all know what that is, I did not until that point.
How bad can it be, really? That’s what I thought as I headed back into the salon a few days later. This was when I met Becky, the owner, who took me into a room, told me to get naked from the waist down and lay on the bed. I knew of Becky through some mutual friends but had never actually met her before, so it was quite the introduction to have her walk in and have my Jackson 5-style afro lady garden greet her. At this point, I would like to point out that Becky and all the girls at Sacco are beyond lovely. They were all aware that I was a ‘wax virgin’ and all very reassuring and understanding about my current hairy situation.
The waxing itself…? Woah! I think Becky eased me in gently, and to be fair to her, she had a lot of work to do down there. But fucking hell, there were parts where I genuinely thought that labour will be a walk in the park compared to how it felt (I’m naive, yes). The ‘hood’ as Becky referred to it, was particularly bad. I reckon at that point I could’ve given Katherine Jenkins a run for her money with the notes I could’ve hit. I got through it, with the odd tear in my eye, and was comforted that when I went back to have it done again (?!), my root strength will only be a few weeks old, compared to the 20-odd-year strong ones that had just been ripped out.
So now, not that I can see it still, my lady bits are hair-free and ready to go. Fingers crossed tiny makes an appearance before things down there get out of hand again and he/she has to comb their way into the world 😉 .
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