Bruce won’t let me lift anything or exert myself. He’s more afraid than I am that the baby will fall out. And so I stayed in bed while he went out running. I lay on the couch when he made breakfast. I sat at the computer when he went out to Staple’s. I lay back down on the couch when he went out for our lunch. I spent almost the entire day within the confines of an area rug.
By the end of the day, I knew every imperfection in my apartment: the clump of dust on the floor by the radiator in the bedroom, the spot near the closet where the wood floor is soft, the way the couch slides sometimes when you sit down on it, ruining the symmetry of the room.
I was actually getting nervous, myself, that I might pee the baby out. It’s probably smaller than a sesame seed at this point — if that — but I have been going to the bathroom a lot, and I thought what with all that wiping, surely….So I went to that place where every other woman goes for sage advice: the Internet. Most sites reassured women that neither sneezing, coughing, laughing or squeezing too hard from constipation is going to make the embryos fall out. One site, from Oregon Reproductive Medicine, likened the uterus to a sandwich, saying that the walls actually touch and that the lining has many tiny folds into which the embryos can nestle until they implant. It sounded so cozy, I wanted to go in there, myself, but then that would have been counter-productive.