Marshmellow Fluff

Tomorrow is my official due date.  Before you get excited, I should tell you that statistically, I have less chance of delivering tomorrow than I did last week, or than I do next week.  I actually have 4% chance of delivering this baby tomorrow.  Come Monday, my chances jump to 20%.  I have Google to thank for these abominable statistics.  These statistics mean that most likely, I’ll be pregnant on Monday.  The frustration this fills me with is great.  I agreed to 40 weeks, 40 weeks of pregnancy was what my mind was calibrated to.  In fact, I was convinced my baby would be early.  They say 37 weeks is “fully cooked”, and I hoped for a fully cooked 37 week old baby.  This statement, I know makes me terrible.  I know this because the people I’ve told this to shake their heads, look down their noses and remind me that the longer my baby stays in the womb the healthier he is.  Translation: Soccer mom thinks I have already failed at being a mother because I can’t handle 3 more weeks of discomfort.  I thought a completely healthy baby was implied in my 37 weeks statement.  To clarify, if in this hypothetical situation, were he to be unhealthy, I would prefer he stay in my belly for 72 weeks or however long it would take to make him the healthiest baby on the planet.

Here’s what they don’t tell first time mom’s: 40 weeks is a long time, your due date is actually an estimated due date and most likely, you will be pregnant 42 weeks.  Filling your brain with any information that give false hopes of a  shorter pregnancy only leads to despair, trust me on this one.  If you are pregnant, wrap your head around 42 weeks.  Hindsight tells me that I should have always prepared myself for a March delivery.

Last week, my doctor told me I was 70% effaced and 1cm dilated.  She found this out by shoving her hand way farther up my lady parts than I ever thought possible, causing me to deep breath and clench my toes tightly around the edge of the examination room table.  I allowed her to treat me like a dairy cow, because I thought it may be a sorority hazing of sorts to see if I could handle childbirth, I wanted her to know I was a ready and capable candidate.  Even with my stellar exercise in willingness and ability, unfortunately I left without going into labor.  Apparently she felt I needed more time to train, so I left her office trying to conceal the waddle that became necessary to compromise for the pain that still lingered.

I’ve been training for months, and the longer I’m pregnant the more my plans go to waste.  For months I have been “show ready”.  Every morning when I leave the house it’s spotless, the pillows arranged on the couch, the sink free of dirty dishes.  Every morning I leave the house with freshly shaven legs and perfectly polished toes, ready to be on display at a moment’s notice.  However my ability to sustain show ready diligence is dwindling.  The more bending over is accompanied by searing pain in my sides, the less I care about stubbly knees.  The harder it becomes to see my toes, the less I notice how unkempt they are.  I’ve nested thirteen times in the past 2 months.  I’ve organized my garage three of those times.  I have my receipts in order to file my taxes, the baby announcement envelopes are stamped and ready to mail.  Now, if only this baby would cooperate and fill me in on the last bit of details I need to mail them; time of birth, day of birth, length and his weight.  With each passing day I become more of a shadow of who I once was.  Today I walked the mall, hoping to throw myself into labor even if it meant my water breaking in the middle of the Nordstrom’s shoe department.  I waited in line at Sephora hoping that $25 mascara could transform my lashes into amazing and luxurious ones with so much beauty that I would forget my thighs have now grown together or that my chin is growing another chin.

I have been diligent in looking for all the signs of impending labor.  Turns out that there are no true signs beyond regular contractions or your water breaking.  Some say that nesting is a good sign, unfortunately nesting is not a recent development for me.  I pride myself on cleanliness and efficiency.  I live my life filling the day with accomplishment.  Checking things off my “to do” list, gives me as much pleasure as a massage gives a normal person.  Which is probably why I feel like I have let myself down by not being able to grow a baby efficiently.  Somewhere along the line, I became convinced that I could make a baby a few weeks sooner than the average person.  It only seemed obvious given that I can do most things quicker than the average person, a baby seemed within my realm of super powers.

Quite possibly this is my first lesson of motherhood.  Turns out, I’m human.  Something I have always been suspicious about, seeing as I lack the ability to fly or look decent in head to toe spandex.  It seems as if I am unable to control everything, even the things going on inside my own body.  Patience has never been my strong suit and the first lesson my little boy is trying to teach me is that loving a baby means practicing patience and finding comfort in the loss of control on a daily basis.  He’ll come when he is ready, it may be tomorrow or possibly next week.  But when he does come, regardless of how clean my house is or how chipped my toe nail polish may be at that very moment, I’m ready for him!