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NST, scheduled C, misplaced pee, and cranky me

The good news

Freestyle Yesterday's NST went off without a hitch.  The baby moved, accelerated, and decelerated exactly as expected, ripping out the necessary three episodes in 15 minutes flat — due, no doubt, to the mysterious and irresistible powers of your collective good wishes.  That's my story, anyway, and I'm sticking to it.  The two-pound bag of Billington's muscovado had nothing to do with it, no matter what my suspicious bastard of a traitorous FreeStyle Lite tries to tell you.

The "Hahahahahaha, sucker" news

In case I needed a refresher on how exquisitely refined Fate's sense of the perverse can be, it seems I need not have given too much consideration to the C-section vs. VBAC question.  With an estimated weight of 8 pounds 7 ounces, the baby is now breech.  Head up, feet down.  Okay, universe, you win.  A planned C-section it is.  Friday, August 1, 2008.

A brief aside to those of you who sympathetically suggested I ask for an immediate delivery: When a pregnancy is complicated by gestational diabetes, there's this skittery line to straddle.  GD babies are prone to delayed lung maturity, so you don't want to deliver earlier than absolutely necessary.  (In fact, you don't want to deliver any baby earlier than absolutely necessary.)  But in GD pregnancies, certain risks increase as the gestation lengthens.  In insulin-managed diabetic mothers carrying babies of a certain...distinctive size, shall we say, the sweet spot for delivery appears to be right around 39 weeks.  I can handle another nine days.

The bad news

On the other hand, I'm not at all sure anyone around me can.  I was unpardonably rude to another woman at the OB's office today.  The bathroom was occupied when I arrived, so I patiently waited to produce my urine sample.  When the occupant emerged, I went in, closed the door, and cast a casual glance at the toilet seat before mounting.  It bore the unmistakable splattered hallmark of that despicable scofflaw, the squatter.

I am not the squeamish sort.  I sit in public bathrooms.  I do not use a paper liner even when they are on offer.  And if the previous tenant hasn't flushed, I am never overly distressed; I'll do the job myself.  Using my hand.  (I digress here to decry another unpalatable flavor of bathroom outlaw, the foot-flusher.  I mean, Jesus, I'm not prim.  But no one should have to confront anyone's bottom-of-the-shoe-on-the-bathroom-floor germs when performing a simple flush.  Foot-flushers, take warning: you are first against the wall of the stall when the revolution comes.  Wait, no, second, after the black-hearted squatters.)

Anyway, I'm not squeamish.  And I am polite almost to a fault.  Normally I would have wiped off the seat, murmured a gentle swear or two, and tended to my own sample without further ado.  So I cannot explain what got into me today.  I looked at the compromised toilet seat and in the constellation of droplets I saw red.  I threw open the bathroom door and said to the woman, who was gathering her belongings before leaving, "Excuse me, ma'am?"


"Next time will you please make sure to clean up after yourself?"

She stared at me.  "What?"

"There is urine all over the toilet seat," I said in a tone intended to suggest that the only appropriate response would be her instant ritual suicide right in front of my accusing eyes.  (The preschooler who accompanied her looked like he could, in a pinch, have served as a reliable second.)

And before she could respond — she was probably trying to remember if she had her tantō in her glove compartment or if it was still off at the sharpener's — I swept back into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind me.  And murmured a gentle swear or two as I grudgingly mopped up her mess.

Nine days.  Friends inside the computer, I suggest you give me a wide berth.  Or at the very least clean up your pee.  The life you save could be your own.