Why Can't Men Just Ask For Directions?

So, last week when Dr. B checked my incredibly sexy belly rash he gave me a quickie ultrasound and announced that Little Homie was... HEAD DOWN.

Maybe playing Little John's "Get Low" to my vajeen did the trick because ze bebe had assumed the position and was good to go.

I was elated. But I didn't go bragging to the blogosphere, because I wanted to wait for the official 36 week ultrasound to make my big announcement. What can I say? I have a flair for drama.

Now, before you all rush to change your vote on the "Will Little Homie get his Ass Up and His Head Down Poll," I just had my 36 week ultrasound After squirting goop all over my big old belly, Dr. B placed the ultrasound wand down , down, down near my lady parts to verify that Little Homie’s head was still nestled snuggly in my pelvis.

“Uh oh.” he said.

It seems that Little Homie has flipped. Again.

Someone get this kid a fucking GPS.

At 28 weeks, Little Homie was standing on my cervix with his head bobbing against my rib cage. Then, at 32 weeks, he had his ass against my girly parts. And somewhere between 35 and 36 weeks, just as we were celebrating the fact that he seemed to have successfully found the Exit, he changed positions again. Little Homie is currently lying sideways with his head resting against my right pelvic bone, and his feet jammed into my diaphragm. Dr. B seems to think that he'll probably flip a few more times before he finally settles down. Or up. Or sideways. With his incredible repertoire of positions, it's like Little Homie is a master in the art of the Kama Sutra. The problem is, he's fucking with me.