The parasite has decided to turn sideways again. This means I am supposed to hang upside down like a bat to encourage her to do the same. Seems contradictory to gravity, but so far it’s shoved her “this end up” a few times. She likes to torment by hanging out in the perfect position for weeks, then turning. For the uninitiated in the ways of parasitism: sideways means “can’t get theyah from heyah.” I would really prefer not to cap off nine months of existential panic with major surgery after all that planning on extruding her into a comfortable hot tub at my house.
In the natural birth world, any deviation from normal = It Must Be the Mother’s Fault. Surely I have been thinking bad thoughts or sitting wrong or not Trusting My Baby, Trusting My Body. In the medical world, any deviation from normal = There, There, Dear, a Doctor Can Fix This, Lie Back and Think of England. Can’t fucking win, as each option is equally insulting. Gonna move to that cave.
Maybe she flipped overnight because we watched that wicked traumatic “Grey’s Anatomy” episode last night that left both Mr. H and I weeping when the pregnant lady died on the operating table after a car accident. That lady’s baby came out early, and “didn’t look so good,” so clearly my parasite is digging in sideways and holding on until it’s really time. Yes, I know TV is for shit.
Or maybe she’s traumatized because yesterday we learned how to prevent choking by whacking a plastic infant on the back. I think I’ll just never allow her anything but a liquid diet. Hey, it works for Kirstie Alley. OK, I promise we won’t whack you on the back, you little potato. It’s not for sport. You’re not about to be born into “The Most Dangerous Game” or anything. Honest. Just try ass-end up for a while. It works so well for Carmen Electra.