We’re in the final days of pregnancy, chez Johnson. Even if B3 decides to cling to the womb as his brothers did, he will be evicted in 13 days. Are we ready? Who knows..probably not..but we can’t wait around forever.
At my last appointment I made sure to confirm with the doctor that they would induce me on the 31st (if not before). Because, at my previous appointment I came across a fellow patient, overdue and in tears. She was beyond ready to have her baby, and had just found out her chart had a different due date for her. Which meant she was going to be pregnant at least 3 days longer than she’d bargained for.
When you’re down to the wire, 3 days is a L-O-N-G time.
Each day I feel the need to inform the world about my unchanged status, so as to avoid the inevitable question: have you had the baby yet?
Every twinge, back pain, or flurry of ‘nesting’ causes me to wonder: will today be the day? When I schedule a play date or coffee date, I inevitably wonder – in the deep recesses of my mind – will I have had the baby by then? The answer, at least thus far, is a big fat NO.
I went to the movies with a friend on Saturday. She joked that the hospital was on the way, in case I suddenly went into labor. When we drove back I told her just to drop me off at the hospital, so I could hang out in the waiting room until the baby decided to show up.
Another friend told me of a foolproof way for determining if a woman would go into labor shortly: apparently her bottom lip becomes puffier than normal? ‘I think yours might be a little bit puffy,’ she tried to console me. But I looked in the mirror, and my bottom lip looks pretty much the same.
All’s I know, is that the women from Starbucks who’d predicted I would have my baby by August 14th, were wrong. The same thing happened to me five years ago, when I was expecting the Gort. My due date was February 26. But my mom told me she’d basically had a sign from the heavens that he’d arrive on the 24th. It must have been a sign for another Nicola, because the Gort didn’t emerge until March-the-freaking-7th.
Once, during those ten days of waiting for our oldest to arrive, the doorbell rang. ‘Maybe it’s the baby,’ I told Jason. Just a wee bit cranky.
There’s a lot of crank at our house these days. We’re all in waiting mode, it seems, trying to anticipate and prepare for the transition that’s about to come upon us. This being our third time around, we adults know a little bit of what’s in store (besides an adorable cuddly baby): sleep deprivation, feeling overwhelmed, trying to remember to empty the dishwasher, once-weekly showers, eating cereal for every meal of the day.
Even the professor’s getting in on the nesting business, feverishly tending to tasks as though I’m already in the throes of labor. Today alone he built a sandbox for the boys, hung pictures and a curtain rod in the nursery and fixed a toilet. He asks me at least twice a day when I’m going to pack my hospital bag.
I’ve learned a thing or two about packing bags too far in advance. When I was pregnant with the Gort, I packed my bag in January, dead certain he’d come early. I even stocked it with snacks. Needless to say, those snacks were long gone by the time we actually went to the hospital, ten days past my due date.
When I was pregnant with the Hen, Jason spent all kinds of time creating a ‘labor’ playlist for his ipod. Which was amusing to me, since I don’t even like to listen to music all that much. Finally, when I was in the throes of un-medicated, induced labor, I yelled at him to turn the ipod on. Anything to take my mind off the insanity.
Except the ipod didn’t work. The fruits of his labor could not be heard, at all. He managed to get the antiquated radio in the room to work, and I received a modicum of mental relief from the local NPR station. The Hen arrived precisely at the conclusion of Beethoven’s 4th piano concerto.
I haven’t listened to it since….too traumatic.
And the boys aren’t oblivious about the changes that await, either. The Gort will start Kindergarten in nine days. He’s a bit emotionally fragile these days, though he claims to be excited about having another baby brother. The other day, however, he told us in no uncertain terms that there should only be 3 brothers. No more.
The Hen is turning 2 in ten days. At the moment, he is cranky enough for three pregnant women. And while he happily points with great interest to other babies, I can’t help but notice when I ask him ‘where’s the baby’ he points to himself…..instead of to my belly.
Something tells me he may not relinquish his baby-status too happily.