The student nurse midwife’s eyebrows raise as she spots my eight pounds in two weeks weight gain on my chart. I look back at her as baffled as she is. “We had a big Easter dinner?” She smiles as she tries to listen to a heartbeat over a kicking, turning, feisty 30 week old baby. I ask my big question. The only one I really care about right now.
“Can you tell if he’s head down?”
My regular midwife comes in, pokes around and assures me that, although he’s still mobile, he’s head down for now.
“I’m way too pregnant to be carrying you around Walmart like this,” I whisper in his ear as he clings like a koala bear to me. He’s is mad and sad with me for taking him to the doctor for his two year, four shot, whopper of a well-check. His legs are squeezing my chest, as they won’t fit around my stomach anymore. I try to prioritize in my head as I dash here and there, picking up Nyquil for a sick husband, oatmeal and OJ for breakfast. Soon my hands and his are filled with stuff. We pass a friend and say hi. We pass a sign that says “Heat and Eat”. I whisper the funny phrase into his ear and he giggles. People smile at us. He screams when I take the Nyquil out of his hands to give to the checker. His precious medicene for his precious Dee-daw. He knows its for him.