Everyday I’m crossing the bets off our baby pool which someone cleverly retitled “Baby Poo!”
At our BabyBash (or not a baby shower) we blue-tacked paper to our staircase and had friends write their guesses of dates and times that the creature might make her appearance. For £1, the closest guess grants the winner 25% with the rest going to a Bristol charity.
Some were hilariously exact in their timings. According to my brother, it was going to be 3.47am on June 1st. Not a chance. Others were deliberately humorous, choosing the due date (May 29th) at high noon for their prediction. If only.
I was, for whatever reason, convinced that she was going to be early and put an optimistic bid in for May 15th. I think it may have had a little to do with the fact that I was born two weeks early.
That guess has combined with the fact that we were booked in for an induction at 38 weeks back when they thought I had obstetric cholestasis to make us psychologically feel like this baby is actually 3 weeks overdue rather than the mere 5 days that she actually is (according to the British estimated due date, which is just an estimate, of course).
The last few weeks have led me through a tour of emotions that I couldn’t have predicted: fear of the unknown, disappointment then hope over the birth experience, impatience in waiting, actually growing pissed off and enforcing acceptance.
I’d like to think I’ve now reached some higher plane of enlightenment where I’ve reached a final stage of zen or whatever. Truthfully, one moment I’m contented to wait since “What is to is must is”, to quote a Trinidadian novel I studied at school. And the next, I’ve had two more membrane sweeps (honestly not as bad as the one I had back at 37 weeks – and, to be fair, I’d likely undergo 7 as painful as that one if someone could promise me it would work), am booking an acupuncturist and praying that something happens soon.
And I smile politely at the constant suggestions of sex, pineapple, curry, nipple stimulation, etc, because I too use Google. But I know that people are only concerned. Or being humorous.
What can I say? That I’m hormonal hence a little bitchy even if only inwardly? That having it pointed out that the baby is overdue is stating the, well, obvious, and that following that with telling me to be patient is counter-productive?
For a start, I laugh at my 38 weeks’ pregnant self who thought that she couldn’t possibly get more uncomfortable than this. With the creature’s head fully engaged, I now feel like there’s a bowling ball resting on my spine.
Also, my parents have flown over from Trinidad and are leaving two days after the hospital induction date, which I may or may not take up (though if I have a few more nights of nursing my back, it’ll start looking attractive). I know they understand but, realistically, I can’t help but feel a bit anxious about her making an appearance later rather than sooner. Just being honest. Trinidad is so far away.
But on the other hand, I really don’t think she’s late at all. She’s not a cake being baked from a universal baby recipe. So far, she’s obviously thriving where she is. It’s the adults in the outside world who are losing their nerve.
The latest date in the pool is June 11th, penciled in with an apology in brackets. Who knows? He might well be on the money. A part of me is “zen” enough to be OK with that. But really, I’d rather not.
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