The paper chains are gone. My countdowns hit zero, and there’s no crying baby or poopy diapers in our house. They’re coming, so I really can’t be upset about it. But I still am a little, and I’m mad at myself for being so selfish.
Someone suggested I write a letter to my baby every day after my due date until she comes because they’ll be fun for her to look back and read. Normally I write a letter to her every week as I progress in my pregnancy but I decided to give myself an extra day before writing my 40 week letter to save myself from saying something I didn’t really mean.
Yesterday was not a good day. I did wake up feeling great. I had lots of energy and I was going to work despite my OB’s request that I stop. My blood pressure was higher at my last appointment and my cankles were still huge. She asked when I was planning to stop working, and when I told her after Lil’ J was born she said no way.
I figured working could help me keep my mind off things and maybe even help the process along. It was a bad idea.
If you were following me on Twitter yesterday you may have been confused by my mood swings.
The beginning part of the day was ok because there was the possibility of labor striking at any minute. This WAS my due date after all. I got surprised comments about working on my due date from people I interviewed–oh what a trooper I was. As the afternoon went on and I had only noticed a handful of contractions I began to realize I’d have to actually finish work that day. It was something deep down, I didn’t see happening–Or I hoped it wouldn’t.
We were stranded far away, and I still had one more interview to do. I thought for sure they’d scratch the story. But lucky me, someone else was able to come pick me up, and help me get the last interview, so I could stay late and complete the story two hours after the five o’clock show. Oh the joys of 24 hour news.
It was during these final few hours that I began to loose it. The burning anger from the realization my baby wasn’t coming was worse than any of the contractions I was feeling. I wanted to scream at every person who poked their head in wondering if I had “popped yet” and I realized the reasons for my doctor’s suggestion not to work anymore went further than my cankles. I think she was thinking about my mental health too.
The straw the broke my back was when the company handling my maternity leave called to confirm that I was no longer working and starting maternity leave. Starting leave now means the 12 weeks clock starts ticking, so if she finally decides to come two weeks from now, that’s two less weeks we’ll get together… Her fault.
It’s my fault really, all of my anger and tears at least. I felt like I’m so ahead of the game but I made the #1 mistake in pregnancy–I invested too much in my due date. Two of my best friends had their first babies early last year so I thought I’d be early too.
I got everything done. EVERYTHING. Nursery set up, bags packed, my nails done, hair done, house cleaning, dog grooming and vaccinations. Now my hair could use another press, my nails are chipped, and I can’t keep up with the clutter collecting around my house.
My husband had to pre-request his vacation time for the baby, so he took off starting the 23rd and he goes back the 8th. Unfortunately there wasn’t any other way to arrange his time off. So at my last OB appointment when the nurse asked me my opinions on inductions I hesitated a little when I told her I wanted to wait as long as I could so it could happen naturally.
I know my doctor’s office doesn’t induce you earlier than 41 weeks unless it’s medically necessary, so unless we find something wrong with my fluid levels, or my placenta, we’re going another week. When my OB came in and checked me, and saw I was about the same as the week before, I wondered what options we had for inducing–In case she didn’t arrive by 41 weeks.
July 3rd is the soonest. I’ll be 41 weeks + 2 days. But the date wasn’t appealing to me because I’d hate for her to have to share a holiday on her birthday. Then she rattled off other dates… The 6th, 8th and 9th. My husband wasn’t with me so she asked us to talk it over, and said we could talk about it at our next appointment.
Originally I was thinking the 9th, it would give Lil’ J as much time as she needed and I’d be 42 FREAKING weeks. Now, to that I say HAIL NAH, and the 3rd is looking more appealing. At least then my husband would get SOME time with the two of us before going back to work, and I wouldn’t have to use a good portion of my maternity leave sitting around, waiting for her, then have to go back to work earlier, meaning less time for getting to know each other. Less time to get use to breastfeeding, less time for everything!
I don’t know why it feels like “due date or induction” all of a sudden, but it does. I feel like she’s not going to come out unless she has help. I didn’t, none of my siblings did. Maybe it’s just in my genes. I know inductions SUCK for some people (they worked fine for my mom), and I don’t want one for the sake of a “natural birth.” But fun thoughts about labor and delivery began to diminish this week. I didn’t get pregnant to be pregnant, or so I could have a cool birth story. I got pregnant because I want a child, and because I want to be a mother.
I’m not getting some elective induction at 38 weeks so I can fly to Bermuda next week. I know when I conceived, and I know she’s had a lot of time to cook. I’m not “off” on my dates, and 41 weeks + 2 days is more than enough time for her to get her act together. I’m handing her her eviction notice and she has until the 3rd to pack her little booty up and come out.
I may still do some walking and raspberry leaf tea drinking to help her along but really, if she’s just going to come when she wants then I’m not going to waste too much energy. Her new birth date to me is July 3rd.
I have calmed down a lot. I blame all of my crying on the hormones. But I’m not going to whine or get upset, or cry anymore. Pretty soon I’m going to miss the kicks in my belly, waking up next to my husband when the sun comes up. Doing whatever we want during the day, as has jokingly puts it “enjoying our lives before they’re over.” Our lives as we now know it at least.
So, I’m resetting the clock. There’s one more week of freedom, one more week of quiet. One more week of honeymooning, spoiling our fur baby, and sleeping in.
Lil’ J can enjoy her time all scrunched and cramped in my uterus, but in a week, she’s coming out.