Random Musing #6: Termless Pregnancy?

Tomorrow morning I have my 39-week check-up, at which point the doctor will be able to tell if my body's making any progress on the labor front. I've never understood why pregnant women whine so obnoxiously and incessantly at the end -- you know the baby is coming out eventually; must you be so melodramatic about the exact day? -- but now I get it. I'm genuinely afraid my prognosis will be: pregnant for eternity.

After my weekend of ineffective, foot-inflaming walks and pointlessly scalding my esophagus with spicy foods, I'm trying to steel myself for the possibility that my doctor will pronounce that I'm -3cm dilated and the baby needs at least another 9 months. (And by "steel myself," I mean I've begged Aaron to come with me because the chances I have an emotional meltdown are somehow greater than 100%.)

I can just see myself, years from now, walking around with a colossal drooping belly, answering the questions of bewildered strangers: "Oh yes, I'm infinity-months pregnant. Months 189 to 225 were really tough -- you know how moody and rebellious those adolescent fetuses can be -- but it's been smooth sailing ever since."

I know I'm not past my due date, so there's no rational reason to lose it just yet; however, as Aaron bent down to put on my shoes for me yesterday, I realized that -- like all women at the end of their pregnancy -- my body and mind are nearing their breaking point. (And let's not forget how just plain excited I am to meet our little boy!) So wish me luck -- or at least send thoughts of viciously painful contractions and Hollywood-style water-breaking my way around 10:45 tomorrow morning.