It was early morning of February 17, and, at 38 weeks 3 days, I was one day more pregnant than I had ever been. I had fully expected to have a newborn in my arms at this point; I had assumed that the last of my progesterone shots would have worn off nearly a week earlier and was shocked when I wa
s still pregnant into the Valentine’s Day weekend. I was uncomfortable and very ready to be done, though I hadn’t quite hit the mental brick wall of *needing* to be done with pregnancy. I just really wanted to be able to sit with my knees together again and to be able to sleep without some limb falling asleep.
