The final post on the topic of baby names, I swear.
Of the five women I know with due dates in the early part of July, exactly one had her baby early. Everyone else is still waiting. All this means is I, for sure, will not have my baby before August 31st. Despite my well intentioned friends who tell me stories about people they’ve known who, despite having a history of overdue-ness, managed to have their third child early. It’s just not going to happen for me.
I had a doctor’s appointment this morning. Apparently the weight I’d mysteriously lost at the last visit, is back. The first chunk of bad news. After waiting about forty minutes for the doctor to arrive, she finally breezed in. In between asking me how I was doing – twice – she imparted a tiny morsel of information: she’s going on leave until the end of August. Oh? Vraiment?
It’s not that I feel a particular attachment to her, but I was planning on her being my doctor throughout the pregnancy. This is what we call ‘a sudden change from the expected’. And I don’t do well with such changes.
Which she figured out after looking at my face.
She informed me the baby continues to be in breech position. I’m sure both my other boys were head down at this point. But that doesn’t count for much. She told me to watch telly with my face to the ground and my behind in the air. To shake the stubborn child out of his comfort zone and encourage him to flip. I contemplated telling her I don’t have a television, but decided not to. I was still ticked about the fact that she was going on leave.
So she told me to come back in ten days, for an appointment with my ‘new’ doctor-sub. To see if the baby had gotten with the program. Then she talked about ultrasounds and attempting to turn the baby at the hospital. She also threw in words like emergency and c-section – should things go south with the ‘attempt-to-turn’.
Because to her, those are just necessary medical terms. Apparently she hadn’t yet figured out that I tend to freak out at the mention of anything besides ‘normal’.
Driving home, we continued the name discussion, which has gone nowhere. Jason’s stuck on his original name. And I’m stuck in my uncertainty. I mentioned a name I’d liked early on in the pregnancy. ‘We’re not Italian,’ he argued. Oh, but we do have strong Croatian roots, I guess.
But he’s a master strategist, the other Jason Johnson. ‘You know I’ll let you have the name you want,’ he concluded. Mock resignation evident in his voice.
No, he knows that if he tells me I can have ‘my way’ I will feel badly and will let him have ‘his way’, whereas if he puts up a fight, I will dig in my heels. Thirteen years of marriage clue you in to these sorts of quirks about the other person.
So we’ve left it at, if the baby is born with dark hair, I get ‘my name’. If he’s born with less than dark hair (as both our other children were) he will have ‘Jason’s name.’ Again, master strategery on the professor’s behalf. What are the odds we will have a brown-haired, brown-eyed child at this point?
Either way, I spent nap-time with my face smooshed on the mattress and my rear in the air. Not particularly conducive to sleep, I should add.
Maybe eating all the chocolates I received in the mail, in one sitting, will give him the energy to flip.