Category: Maddux

It seems my excitement about Maddi’s sleep schedule was a bit premature. Perhaps it was taking her to an afternoon wedding two hours away, when she slept on the drive up, during the drive back, AND all through the ceremony and reception. Perhaps it’s because she’s picked up on the fact that I’ve been tense since throwing out my back carrying a tubful of poopy bathwater through the house to empty it in the tub rather than in the kitchen sink (but under the circumstances, wouldn’t you do the same?). Maybe, as Nana has suggested, it’s part of the six-week feeding-schedule changeup babies sometimes go through.

Whatever the cause, Maddi has ceased slumbering for five hours at a stretch and has decided that nighttime is no longer for sleeping, but rather is a great time for several leisurely dinners. Her “big” chunks of nighttime sleep now last approximately an hour and a half. And since her sister is in town, we are spending more time than usual in the car, which means that Maddi is spending several more hours a day sleeping than she usually does.

Short of continually waking her up during the day — which as anyone who knows Maddi can tell you is impossible anyway — I am not sure what to do. Normally this is something I could think over and solve, but since I’m getting on average about four or five (broken) hours of sleep nightly, my brain is not fully operational. To give you an idea of how bad it is, Chris has had to prompt me when I’ve forgotten simple words. I can’t even remember the last time I used a five-dollar word in conversation.

Even worse, at the beginning of the previous paragraph, you may notice I used the word “continually.” This is courtesy of Merriam-Webster. Normally I would be able to explain to you that “continually” and “continuously” are not interchangeable and then tell you in which instances each word should be used. But today I could not for the life of me remember which one was appropriate to use when you are talking about something that happens repeatedly rather than unceasingly. I guessed “continuously,” but then decided to double-check myself. And I was wrong. Considering that I made a career of knowing what word to use and when, and did much of my work on very little sleep and past most people’s bedtimes, this signifies some pretty severe sleep deprivation indeed.

Despite her determination to drive me utterly mad with sleeplessness, Maddi continues to develop very nicely in other ways. Smiles now can be coaxed out of our wee daughter almost anytime. When she wakes up alone in her crib and wails for Mommy, her cries cease as soon as I lean over the crib — and sometimes, if she’s not inconsolable yet, as soon as she hears my footsteps in the hallway. She has at last discovered that diaper changes, while cold and annoying, won’t actually culminate in her painful demise. And just this Monday, as Nana was giving her a bottle, she grabbed it with both hands.

All of this is very thrilling indeed, but at 4 a.m. as I watch the first rays of sunlight begin to creep through the blinds and I’m running on an hour of sleep, most nights I would trade it for those nice five-hour chunks of slumber we were enjoying a week and a half ago.

Well, except for all the smiling she’s been doing lately. That’s too cute!

And here’s a picture of our unsleeping beauty one day before she turned six weeks old, giving one of her big grins:

Maddi and I both woke up in great moods today. My high spirits were a result of her sleeping for five hours in a row, and NOT (as often happens) in her bouncy seat with me turning the music and vibration back on every 15 minutes. Her high spirits occurred because she woke up well-rested, was retrieved from her crib before her quiet fussing turned into frantic crying, and was promptly changed and fed to bursting.

Chris and I enjoyed a good 20 minutes of Maddi’s morning cuteness today. Maddi was in her bouncy seat, where I had put her about an hour earlier so I could grab a few extra Zs for the road. Chris had come into the room to retrieve some clothing and Maddi gurgled “Hi, Daddy!” to him and “Wake up and play with me!” to me (just not in so many words). Maddi is usually a mellow little angel in the morning, and we happened to catch her during a period of very happy alertness.

There is nothing better than a blissful baby, and this morning was one of those perfect blissful-baby moments. It started with some cute cooing, and Chris stuck around to hear Maddi’s latest word, “ah-goo” (also very popular is the ever-adorable “glurrhh”). Then, realizing she had the complete attention of both Mommy and Daddy at once — usually she doesn’t even have them in the same room at once — Maddi let loose a barrage of smiles, grins, smirks and near-laughs, along with additional utterances of “ah-goo,” “glurrhh” and even the odd “glaaa.”

We admit these are not actual words, but we still thought they were brilliant and adorable. And we have never seen her smile for such an extended period of time. We took turns giving her kisses and were rewarded by her trying to suck on our noses, which we shall assume was her ill-coordinated attempt to reciprocate that expression of affection.

I have to say that, in my book, nothing compares with the joy of interacting with one’s baby, and for her to be in such a great mood and so social for so long was pure magic. This morning was one of those memories I will keep in my heart forever.

Cue violins

Coming soon: A cute picture of Maddi at five weeks.

Today our precious progeny is one month old. I suppose we should put a candle on her bottle and throw her a little party to celebrate her passage through these first rough weeks of life, but what I really feel like doing is having a good cry.

Despite the sleepless nights and the loss of my identity as anything more than a human dairy, I have thoroughly enjoyed bonding with my baby girl and have spent many a moment watching her sleep and thinking wistfully, “She will never be this young again.”

Now, she’s no longer that young and even though I treasured every minute I had with my newborn, I find myself tearing up at the thought that those moments are gone, never to return. Even if, like so many parents, I try to remedy this problem by having another baby, it won’t be the same precious baby I’ve enjoyed so much.

Every time I hear the bleating noise Maddi makes in her sleep when she’s working on what Chris calls a “Mommy present,” I wonder will this be the last time our little lambykins say “baa”?

Already she has grown up so much. She has gained two pounds and counting. She’s quit falling asleep on the bottle. When her pacifier falls out, she’s able to quickly find a finger or thumb to replace it with. And when she’s offered a meal, whether it’s via plastic or Mommy, she immediately stops crying and starts panting excitedly. Gone are the innocent days of not knowing where her food came from. The look of surprise she used to get when something was put in her mouth has been replaced by an expression that says “Well, you certainly took your time with that!”

One of these days, Maddi’s going to develop motor skills and be able to grab the toys I offer her. Someday in the not-too-distant future, our wee gourmand will become interested in table food. And within the year, she will be traveling freely about the house on the chubby little legs that now do nothing more than kick wildly during diaper changes.

All of these milestones will be great and joyous events, but they will also mean that we will no longer have the same baby we have now. And we are loving our little girl so much as she is, it is hard to fathom not having this exact form of bliss forever and ever. With each passing day, Maddux looks older and loses a bit more of that kittenlike newborn-ness that I so adore. I don’t love her any less, of course — in fact, I cherish this baby more as time passes — but at the same time as I celebrate all the “firsts” my ever-growing daughter is experiencing, I grieve the loss of my tiny, warm, brand-new baby.

I totally skipped the baby blues that most new moms experience, and boy am I glad I did. But I have discovered another misery, one that comes of having such happiness in being a mother: the agony of knowing this new-baby bliss can’t last forever.

And here is the one-month picture of our little girl, who is not a newborn anymore and never will be again (sob!).

As I write this, little miss Maddux is sleeping like a baby. Which means she is lying in her crib about to wake up and realize she is being neither fed nor held. You see, the entire phrase is misleading. Sure, a sleeping infant looks peaceful, especially to the uninitiated. But those who live with newborns know that the slumber of a baby is as ephemeral as the little gas smiles that dance across its face.

The literature says breastfed babies sleep up to three hours at a stretch in the day and up to five at night. The literature lies.

Thus it is with great pleasure that I announce that on Wednesday night, Maddi slept for three hours in a row, had a 1 a.m. snack and then slept for another four hours.

This may not sound like much, but prior to this week she has slept no more than a few hours at a stretch, and usually not more than 90 minutes. When she is awake, nothing but food and cuddling will do, even if it’s 4 a.m. (hey, especially when it’s 4 a.m.!), so her sleeping this much during the night is a Very Big Thing. Accustomed to operating on two or three two-hour stretches of sleep per night, I woke up Thursday morning practically drunk with slumber and exilharated by the implications of Maddi’s newfound ability to sleep for as long as normal newborns are supposed to sleep.

Granted, last night I planned for her to be in bed at 10 or 11 and she wanted to eat and play until 2 a.m., and then awaken for hourlong feedings every hour thereafter. But I’m going to call that a fluke (the kind that I hope can be remedied by not having iced cappucinos in the evening) and say that she is finally figuring out that nighttime is for sleeping and that, while my nighttime hours are flexible, Mommy is not a 24-hour buffet.

Once she starts sleeping for longer stretches, perhaps I will be able to do things I haven’t done in a month — things such as using the bathroom, eating in places other than the bed, and taking only one day to write the short weekly blog entry.

If our ambitious plan to have Maddi sleep for several hours at a stretch comes to fruition, my next order of business is even more optimistic — one day in the future, we may get Maddi to be OK with being awake while not being held or fed. That way, we can get pictures of her without Mommy or Daddy in them (oddly, what with the lack of sleep around here, nobody really wants to be photographed anymore).

But for now, I’m just happy that our little girl is now sleeping like a baby. Sure, it’s fitful, three- or four-hour sleep. But after four weeks of fitful, two-hour sleep, we’ll take it!

And here’s Maddi’s 4-week-old picture, taken during one of Maddi’s naps:

Our little daughter is already three weeks old. In some ways, it feels like it’s been an eternity. But at the same time, it’s hard to believe she’s this old already.

So far, we’ve hit quite a few milestones, the least of which is her weird ability to get cuter by the day, even when it seems impossible for the child to get any more adorable. We finally managed to get her staying awake a little more in the day and sleeping a little more at night. She’s made eye contact with us and smiled while doing so, although most literature dismisses babies’ early smiles as gas. (We’re pretty sure we know the difference, however, as Maddi is the queen of bodily functions and has a completely different smile for gas. We know this because she farts like a trucker after a burrito-eating contest.) She’s held her head up from a lying-down position and reached (if a bit spastically) for her mobile. She’s tracking things like mad with her eyes. Her oeuvre as a vocalist has expanded from an all-crying repertoire to include some very cute cooing noises. She’s even stayed home alone with a grandparent a few times while Chris and I escaped enjoyed some “alone-time.”

Of course there are a few tradeoffs to having such an active and alert wee one. One of those is that she sleeps but a precious few hours a day. And those hours are spent multitasking (read: eating and pooping) which means that while she may be getting some well-needed rest, Mommy and Daddy are not.

Another is that she knows all too well when she is not being held or fed, and if she is being held, she knows whether or not whoever is holding her is still capable of accomplishing day-to-day tasks such as eating or washing bottles. If the holder is able to pull off something as outrageous as taking her vitamins or checking his email, the holdee will commence her piteous wailing until the holder either feeds her or manages to amuse her sufficiently.

Naturally, the holdee is never sufficiently amused if the holder happens to be Mommy, as there are obviously two large bottles of delicious, comforting milk conveniently situated mere inches from where she is being held.

Even when the holder is someone else, Maddi will be reminded of her bottles if that person is female or has any significant pectoral muscles at all.

Thus, even when there has been extra help about (a.k.a. the grandmothers), I have consistently posted late, held my bladder well past the point of comfort, and sometimes failed to eat my three squares a day. And Maddi has gained quite a bit of weight.

We’re not sure how much because going to the health unit to weigh her would require weaning her for an hour, but let it suffice to say that some of the clothing she swam in three weeks ago is now straining at the seams around her sausagey little body, fitting her about as well as my prepregnancy skinny jeans now fit over my newly renovated hips.

That, and some of her diapers alone weigh more than she did when she made her grand entrance.

So, needless to say, we are very much looking forward to what we hope, hope, HOPE will be Maddi’s next amazing and adorable milestones: Sleeping more than an hour at a time, especially during the night, and being OK with Mommy and Daddy doing things other than feeding her.

And here it is — our picky little princess’ three-week picture.

As you may recall, during her gestational months we referred to Maddi by the nickname Pele owing to her tendency to cause eruptions when the wrong sacrifices were offered.

The nickname has been replaced for the most part by Maddykins and Lambchop (because she baas like a little lamb when she’s passing gas), but it is no less fitting than it was before. While we are getting more sleep and enjoying a bit more spare time than we did in that first difficult week, there are a few new things to contend with. The rumblings that used to occur deep within my stomach before the vomit eruptions of early pregnancy are now occuring within the belly of our little girl. Unfortunately, while we always knew from whence Pele’s wrath would shower when I was pregnant, it is now an entirely unpredictable matter.

If the rumble is followed by a gurgle, we know that the blast zone is to the south. However, the most devastation occurs when the blast zone is to the north. The lack of ground cover means that whatever spews forth from the belly of Mount Maddi will bathe a greater area in liquid destruction. And there is no warning gurgle. One minute, you will be looking at Maddi’s sweet little face — the next, your favorite shirt is bathed in white lava.

Our volcano goddess is not discriminating in regards to what is ruined and what is spared. Cute sleepers, velvet overalls, plain white onesies, pajamas, or my only nursing top … nothing is sacred when Pele unleashes her torrent of destruction. Sacrifices are futile — she doesn’t care whether it’s formula or breastmilk. It all comes out one way or another.

But at least she’s sleeping for three or four hours at a stretch once in awhile.

And for your viewing pleasure, Maddi at 2 weeks old:

Last night was my eighth sleepless one in as many days.* Not entirely sleepless, mind you, since Chris and I started sleeping in shifts. But definitely not the type of uninterrupted sleep enjoyed by those who do not play cafeteria to ravenous infants.

Don’t get me wrong. Maddi is adorable, sweet and a complete joy. As far as babies go, she’s a great one. She just has this habit of guzzling 4 or more ounces every 90 minutes (“normal” newborns supposedly take more like 2 ounces every few hours), confusing daytime with nighttime (her big feeding frenzy is between midnight and 5 a.m.) and refusing to sleep unless she is being held.

We have used abused her bouncy seat to transition her from sleeping in our arms to sleeping in her Pack ‘N’ Play bassinet, which we will then use to transition her from sleeping in our room to sleeping in her nursery. In fact, today — a mere eight days from her birth — we were forced to replace the batteries in that blessed, lifesaving wonder that is Maddi’s bouncy seat.

Despite having fewer hours of sleep in a week than I had each day of my first trimester (back in that halcyon era of staying awake for six or fewer hours at a time), and having completely neglected many aspects of personal grooming, I am still in a weird euphoric state that must be the opposite of postpartum depression. (Is there such a thing as postpartum mania?)

In addition to surviving on about five hours of broken sleep per 24-hour period, I have also managed to do a few loads of laundry (if you know me, you know this is not my usual M.O.) and pump several bottles in my downtime. I would even be posting a little more, if only I could get on the computer with more than one arm available (tonight’s post is courtesy of Nana, who kindly offered to stay over and help out with Maddi, and the last one was thanks to the bouncy seat).

Sometimes, when I have the opportunity to sleep — provided that she doesn’t wake up when I put her down — I hold Maddi and gaze at her sweet little face instead. And in the rare moments when I’m showering or drying my hair, there’s a weird phenomenon in which the shower or the blow drier sounds as if it’s got a background track of Maddi’s hunger cry (of course, when I turn off whatever appliance I’m using, it turns out to be nothing). It’s a good thing for me that babies can’t get restraining orders, because I think this qualifies as obsession. Can’t eat, can’t sleep … you get the picture.

It’s supposed to get better after the first few weeks, so we shall see. In the meantime, there are shifts to be slept in and pumping to be done (facilitating those much-needed naps).

Until such time as Maddi can go more than 30 consecutive minutes without eating, if I forget to do my Friday post — or if I take four days to write it as I did this week — it’s just because I’m trying to catch a wink. (And probably not getting it.)

Coming soon: Pictures of Maddi at one week.

*Yes, I realize she is now 10 days old rather than eight. It took me three days to catch 30 spare minutes to write this. Did I mention she is a good eater?

Welcome to the world, Maddux Elise Phillips!

Doubtless, given my failure to post an update after my last entry, you are left wondering whether the big event finally arrived. The answer, of course, is yes.

I did make it to that highly anticipated pedicure — and not a moment too soon!

That other highly anticipated event — the grand debut of the wee one — was getting ready to happen, to my great and unending denial. My contractions had been four minutes apart since Tuesday night and by the time I made it to the salon on Thursday morning, they’d been clocked at two minutes apart. But since they weren’t any more painful than period cramps, I decided there was no way possible that I was in transition labor. (I was right, but I was in early labor).

I left the salon with toenails painted a lovely shade of ‘Suzi Sells Sushi by the Seashore’ (that’s OPI-ese for peachy pink) and drove home through my two-minutes-apart contractions. On arriving home, I was informed that the pedicure package should have included a paraffin dip, so I scheduled that for 2:15 and begged the contractions not to get any harder. Lucky for me, my uterus obeyed me until I returned home with warm, soft feet and joined Chris in the office.

At some point while timing my contractions, I realized that they were still two minutes apart and were now at least as painful as period cramps. I also realized that we live 40 minutes from the hospital and that Chris would not appreciate my giving birth a) on the office futon or b) in the Nissan. (I probably wouldn’t have appreciated those options either, as Chris is not licensed to practice medicine or administer anesthesia.)

Since Dr. Goncalves was the on-call physician that day at the hospital, his receptionist told me to go to Labour and Delivery and have Dr. G check me out. When we got to the hospital about 3:45, we discovered that another highly anticipated event had occurred without our knowing. While I waited in the examination room, Chris headed downstairs to check me into the hospital and was told I needed a new hospital card that had my MSP number on it. Yes, my health-care coverage application has apparently been approved, and, like the pedicure, I got it just in time.

Unfortunately, while everything else was falling into place in a timely manner, my cervix was not so cooperative. Despite my having had regular contractions for nearly two solid days, and close regular contractions for about 16 hours, I was still a mere 2 cm dilated at 5 p.m.

Our little daughter’s heart rate, which had been a very predictable 145 or so at nearly every prenatal visit from week 12 on, had been up in the 160s for much of the time since I’d been admitted, dipping lower during those stressful contractions. The nurses determined that I was in labor, but it was still early labor. However, because of the distance between our home in Peachland and the hospital in Penticton, combined with the fact that it was my first baby and we couldn’t predict how quickly labor might progress, Dr. Goncalves made the call to admit me sooner rather than later.

I walked around laboring blissfully for awhile, filled with a mixture of anticipation and disbelief. When Dr. G arrived at the hospital, I was certain I’d be at least 4 cm. Alas, while the contractions had gotten harder and remained two minutes apart, my stubborn cervix had not budged a millimeter in the past two hours.

With me getting tired and frustrated and the baby remaining stressed, Dr. Goncalves and I decided that it was time to speed things up. At 6:45, he broke my water, and immediately things began to progress. My contractions now felt like what I’d expected from labor, and I was finally able to use my breathing techniques in earnest. Pretty soon, it became impossible to walk or stand ‘ but when Dr. G checked me about 9 p.m., I was dilated only 3 cm. And our obstinate little girl was facing forward rather than to my spine, which meant that I was enjoying what is known as back labor and that it would only get worse unless we managed to get her to turn around.

At some point while I was bent over the top of the bed on hands and knees in a most undignified effort to corral our wee daughter into an appropriate position, the contractions went from pretty bad to unbearable. My plan had been to deliver with no medications but the epidural, but since I hadn’t reached 4 cm there was no hope of getting one any time soon. So I scrapped my original plan and huffed Entenox as if my life depended on it. Pretty soon, I was informed that I still wasn’t dilating, and since there was no way I could stand, let alone walk the halls, I straddled the world’s most uncomfortable chair — which I suspect was brought in directly from my first-grade music classroom — in order to let gravity work its magic. Apparently it worked because within minutes I was begging for an epidural (which, as you may recall, I was not able yet to have). A friend from prenatal class brought lavender oil and massaged my ankles, which made the contractions bearable, and when I was told that I did not actually need the C-section I was begging for, I agreed to be given more drugs. The way I anticipated the insertion of the IV and its soothing dose of Fentanyl has convinced me that it would be a very bad idea indeed for me to ever try heroin.

The details of labor after the administration of Fentanyl are a bit hazy (only partly owing to the narcotics). It is difficult to look at the clock or listen to the nurses when one is simultaneously hyperventilating and screaming one’s head off. At some point I hit 4 cm and left the labor room for my epidural. When they checked me again before actually inserting the catheter, I had dilated to 6-7 cm and was feeling the urge to push during contractions (don’t worry — I didn’t!). By 11 p.m., when the catheter was in and I had stopped screaming, I was at 7-8 cm.

I don’t know how it feels in normal labor, but let me just say that, when you are having rapid back labor, epidurals do NOT result in feelings of mere pressure rather than pain. They simply make the pain such that you can breathe through it without yelling maniacally and frightening people walking past the maternity wing. Unfortunately, Chris’ 11-year-old cousin Becca was within earshot and is now planning never to have children.

An hour after my epidural, I was fully dilated and ready to push our daughter out of her not-so-comfy home. An hour and fifteen minutes or so later (and after our wee one’s “stupid melon head” was roundly condemned), Maddux Elise entered the world sideways at 1:21 a.m. May 6. It seems she had rotated 45 degrees in the birth canal, which might explain why pushing was the least back-labor-heavy part of the night.

Maddi was born weighing 7 pounds, 14 ounces and measuring 20.5 inches. She’s been eating like a champ and has already nearly gained back the 7 ounces she lost the day after being born. Much thanks to Maddi’s Nana, who helped me through most of my contractions, and to Auntie Kathy who provided support, compresses and prayers, and especially to Chris, who — unlike the dad in the childbirth video we watched in prenatal class — did everything right! And of course, big ups to Dr. G, the wonderful nurses and, last but not least, the anesthetist.

Sadly, what they say about the best laid plans is true. I planned to have a drug-free delivery with the option of an epidural if I really needed one, and I pretty well drained the pharmacy. And while I was so excited to get my pedicure, my entire labor was spent with slipper socks covering my pretty nails.

Despite these little disappointments — and the horrid back labor — I am so happy to finally have my baby daughter in my arms. Chris and I have been home with Maddi for two days now and, while we fear we will never sleep again, we are enjoying our little girl immensely!

Pictures of the labor and delivery are available in Chris’ photo gallery.

And now — you knew it was coming — my final preggie pic at Week 39.7!

Just when I thought I was going to be pregnant forever and ever, I got two pieces of good news from Dr. Goncalves’ office.

The first piece of good news is that he is willing to wait to induce until 11 days, rather than 10, after his due date (his is the 9th, ours is the 8th) so that my mom doesn’t have to go directly from the airport to the hospital. The other good news is that he doesn’t think I will last that long (sorry, Mom!). In fact, he said it is very likely I will go into labor tonight or tomorrow.

Between my regular, close-together contractions — which have resumed since last I posted — and my fingertip-dilated but almost completely effaced cervix, and given the fact that the baby dropped weeks ago and now is about as low as they come, it looks as if we will not have to wait very long at all to bring the wee one home. (Which is good, because her head is hurting my butt and as for her feet … well, let’s just say it’s very lucky that the liver regenerates!)

The car is packed with labor bag, baby bag, laptop and snacks, and I am staying off certain of Chris’ favorite furniture items in the event of flash flooding.

I am convinced that this is happening because yesterday, before the contractions began, I scheduled a pedicure for 9 a.m. tomorrow. It is a birthday present from Chris and I really can’t think of a thing I want more! With my luck, I will enter Labor & Delivery (oops — since we are in Canada, that should be Labour and Delivery!) sometime before my birthday treat with the same sad, haphazardly-painted nails I inflicted on myself two weeks ago in my final, rather futile attempt to reach my toes. It would have been nice to have had pretty feet. That, I suspect, is exactly what my wily uterus realized and — always one to rain on my parade in the past with ill-timed periods — quickly went into action to prevent me from having any happiness, comfort or feelings of attractiveness in these final days.

Little does that organ realize, I did manage to shave and pack makeup for the hospital! Ha!

Well, I will keep everyone updated on my condition (although it may be via the labor email Chris set up awhile back). With any luck, the baby will hold off until after I have exited the salon with soft feet and lovely nails.

Last night, Chris and I were fully prepared to pack up and go to the hospital if necessary. Today, it’s just the regular afternoon obstetrician’s appointment.

This is what comes of timing contractions.

I was having intermittent contractions last night as Chris and I were playing euchre with his mom and Aunt Kathy. They were just little bitty contractions, but someone suggested timing them. (Now if someone suggests that you jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, do you go ahead and do it? Of course not!)

They started off 12 minutes apart, then progressed to seven and later to five. Still, they were teensy-weensy, mildly crampy contractions, so I was certain they’d stop.

By the time we arrived home, they were coming four minutes apart, and some of them were fairly strong. I finished folding and putting away the baby’s clean clothes and added a few new baby items to the labor bag, and Chris put out the trash, changed the cat box and shaved … just in case I woke up at 3 a.m. with the baby halfway out. Still skeptical that it was the real thing, I lay down with a bottle of water and timed my contractions until 1:30 or so. They weren’t stopping, so I fell asleep, figuring I might not get any if I stayed up later.

But while the contractions increased my frequency of nighttime toilet visits — and decreased my already-impaired ability to sleep comfortably — they stopped, alas, sometime between 4 a.m. and quarter to 7.

Now I’ve gone from hoping that, in 36 hours, I could be leaving the hospital with our baby girl in tow to hoping that, in 5 hours, Dr. Goncalves will tell me I have dilated even just the littlest bit.

T minus 4 days.

And here, marking Week 39, are what I hope will be the very last belly pics: