It’s official. I have been pregnant for an Ice Age.
This baby will NEVER COME.
Never mind that my actual due date is still 6 days away. My OB told me two weeks ago that I was probably going to be early with this one–and I, fool that I am, believed him.
Now I am 39+ weeks pregnant, having Braxton Hicks contractions about 95% of my waking hours, but when I go to my OB he tells me I’m “maybe a fingertip dilated,” which we all know means, nothing is happening. And everyone, including me, thinks that I should have had this baby long ago. I mean, I’ve nesting-instincted my way through every closet and junk drawer we have. What is this baby waiting for?
The worst part of it isn’t my own impatience. Or even that my friend three blocks away, due a week after me, had her baby two days ago. It’s that I am now disappointing people, everywhere I go, just by showing up. It’s like being Norm and walking into the bar on Cheers, only I make everyone really depressed.
“Ammmmyyyyy!” my apartment building’s doorman, super, and elevator operator chime in unison every time I get off the elevator. “Still waiting?”
“Oh no!” the moms and dads say at nursery school dropoff. “You’re still here? What is going ON?”
None of this is really helping. You think YOU’RE frustrated that I’m still pregnant? I think. Try being in here with both of us.
Yes, I’ve tried walking. Spicy foods. Red raspberry leaf tea. I went for a prenatal massage and, for the full hour, the therapist pretty much only touched the pressure points that can trigger labor. If you’ve heard of the method, I’ve tried it, trust me.
So it’s fine. I’ve made my peace with it: no baby, ever. I’m going to walk around with a bowling ball belly that sags to my knees for the rest of my life. Honestly, that’s starting to sound better than the eleven-pounder that will descend through my birth canal if I ever do deliver.
Note to self: someday, when I’m talking to a woman who I thought was supposed to deliver weeks ago, I’m going to SAY NOTHING. Not even mention it. Or, if I forget… duck.