Julie is 39 weeks pregnant today. Her back hurts, she's exhausted, and she's ready to be done. If only her womb wasn't so damn hospitable.
Today she was in the skyway walking to a meeting, and suddenly her feet slipped out from under her and she fell on her knees hard. In accordance with human nature, zero passersby stopped to help her up.
She was fine--at least it wasn't a belly flop--but one could certainly argue that the working world is beginning to reject her presence. What possible purpose does a pregnant woman at 39 weeks serve in the skyway, anyway? That was apparently the skyway's perspective, so it attacked her like she was a virus.
But we'll go 41 weeks and get induced again; I can feel it. Julie has one of those cervix doors that does not open without Pitocin. It's fine because the kid will be hearty and probably already know how to talk. The first thing he'll say is, "Ma, why the hell can't you relax?"
That. Is. Horrible. I can't even stand the image of poor Julie all preggers falling in the skyway. Julie, I'd help you back up a million times over. What kind of monsters are you working among?
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