I swear that’s how the world sees me right now. Or at least almost anyone I come into contact with that ask me when I am due.
Today marks the start of my 41st week of pregnancy. Last Thursday, my due date, came and went. The baby? Didn’t come. He’s still hanging out in there, punching my cervix and kicking my ribs. His new trick? Shaping himself like an upside-down “L” and stretching, really really big. My payback? An ice pack to his feet. He’s quick to tuck them back in and behave for an hour or two.
I had two post-date checks today. An NST to check on his heart rate and movements and such, which was all good. And an ultrasound to check fluid levels to make sure the placenta is still in tip-top shape. That one was given an all clear, too. To which I replied with “dammit” and looked like a terrible mother. By all means, I am thrilled baby is thriving in his cozy little home with an eviction pending, but if fluids were a bit low, they would have induced me today.
So now I wait.
Sunday, I will be 41w3d so they will induce me at the hospital. I am “on call” from now until then for anytime my name is at the top of the list and they have space. Worst case, they will call me on Sunday, unless there’s a huge influx of pregnant women coming in to give birth (lucky bastards!) and they have to push me out until Monday.
In Canada, it’s Thanksgiving weekend. Meaning turkey dinner. And the pumpkin patch. And my mom is flying in from the Yukon on Saturday morning. This child needs to clean his act up and get out – sometime before kindergarten would be swell.
I just have to keep reminding myself : seven more days. In seven days, if the various methods of induction don’t work, they will perform a c-section and that stubborn little newborn will be in my arms and he can continue to torment me from outside the womb. ❤