My baby is the size of a watermelon and my due date is on the horizon; just one week away. I know I’ve mentioned this before (so consider this a reminder to myself): this time I’m trying to look beyond the horizon.
Even though well-meaning strangers tell me I won’t be late with this baby because it’s my second, my doctor told me that science says that since I was late the first time, there’s a good chance I’ll be late again.
My sister (who was early with her first two and late with her second two…and that is what I tell all the well-meaning strangers) says due dates shouldn’t exist because we put too much stock in them. Women start to fixate on that date, and when it comes and goes they start to panic. I can, ahem, relate to that. If my doctor told me that the baby would probably come “sometime in the first two weeks of June” maybe I wouldn’t be so focused on June 7, June 7, June 7, 7,7.
Meanwhile, my baby is like, “June 7? Who said anything about June 7?”
My doctor, with the help of an ultrasound, estimated that this baby already weighs 7 lbs, 8 oz. Ok. Enough already. This goose is cooked.
I don’t know if this is because of my declaration to not complain (I was a camp counselor one summer and the theme for the summer was CHOOSE YOUR ATTITUDE! It sounds corny, but it does sorta work.), but I have to admit: I don’t feel half bad. Yes, I’m enormous and exhausted, just like you would be if you gained a significant amount of weight on a localized part of your body, but besides that I’m feeling great. Really.
Two days ago I was unloading some groceries from the car, and my neighbor told me I was the most “up and at ’em” 9-months pregnant girl he’s ever seen. That might have been the best pregnancy compliment I’ve ever gotten…even though he is a 24-ish year old guy who’s probably only seen one or two other pregnant women.
Regardless, it was much nicer than the woman at the post office today who told me that the hospital was just three blocks north and it looked like I needed to go there.
I have a friend who wants to start a Tumblr called “Shut the Bump Up” filled with rude comments people make to pregnant women. The only problem I see with that idea is that she’d be so overwhelmed with submissions, because people are so rude. The comments are so stereotypical that they almost seem fake. No, I’m not having twins. No, I’m not past my due date. Haha, I guess I do look like I’m about to pop.
A different neighbor told me that last one. She drove by me, then put her car in reverse, rolled her window down and shouted it to me across the street.
I had half a mind to tell her that that’s not how babies come out, moron.
I do feel a little like a ticking time bomb. At any moment a chain of events could begin that will change my life forever. Every night when I go to bed I think about the state of my house, knowing that there’s a chance we might have to leave in the middle of the night, and a member of my family will come over to watch my son. And will bringing a new baby into the world make them look past the unfolded laundry or dishes left in the sink?
Despite the tick tick tick, Braxton Hicks, and looming due date, I’ve made plans for next week. I’ve even made plans for late next week. A big part of me wants to languish in my discomfort, but I know I’ll feel better, and the days will pass more quickly, if I’m busy.
But even if they don’t the baby will be here in no time. That’s what I’ve learned from hindsight. David came one week late, and as long as that week seemed, it was just one week of my life. And I can even look back and see how great God’s timing was in him coming a week late.
That long, hot week passed…and then the real work started.