We’ve had fun, these past 40 weeks or so, but I’m afraid to say, the time has come. In fact, you’re currently 3 days late. GTFO. Or else.
Yes, I know due dates aren’t real. They’re an estimate, and normal pregnancies last anywhere between 37-42 weeks, and no amount of pineapple eating or Clary Sage sniffing is going to make it turn up any faster. I know all that. BUT, we’ve spent the past 9 months preparing for your arrival. We’ve watched the instructional videos on how to fit the car seat, we’ve even attempted to test the baby sling on the cat (not a successful mission, FYI), not to mention the fact that I am getting spectacularly more grumpy by the day, and my stomach has started to resemble a London underground map. So just HURRY UP ALREADY.
To make matters worse, when all the people on the pregnancy forums due within a few weeks of me all seemingly do a big sneeze two weeks before their due date and end up with an adorable instagrammed newborn curled up on their chest, then I start to get a teensy bit cats-bum-face about the whole thing. It’s not just people on the interwebs either. Remember when I moaned about people coming out of the woodwork to share their overly dramatic birth stories? Well the ante has officially been upped. In the last couple of weeks, these have been replaced with stories of people’s friend’s sister’s neighbor’s colleague who came back from a long day at work, cooked a 3 course meal for 12 people, put together some flatpack furniture, sat down with a cuppa and had a baby, all in the time it takes me to seal-dive my gargantuan ass of the sofa to put the kettle on.
I know all about the walking, and the bouncing on yoga balls, the red raspberry leaf tea, hot curries and eating seven freaking pineapples, but to be honest, that’s just stuff to distract you whilst you finish gestating, isn’t it? Because I’ve bounced on my yoga ball so much it’s become slightly mis-shapen, done more laps of Wollaton Park than I care to count, have taken so many raspberry leaf tea capsules I’ve now ran out, yet still, no baby.
And then you get to the well meaning texts and phone calls asking if there are “any signs?” which have been coming through thick and fast for, oh…about a month now. From the vast majority of people, I’m genuinely pleased to hear from them and welcome them checking in. From other select people (especially if the words ‘dropped’, ‘popped’ or ‘sprog’ are used), I want to incredible-hulk-smash my phone against the nearest hard surface and go in to hibernation until you make an appearance. Don’t get me wrong, the rational part of my brain is TOTALLY aware how ungrateful this makes me sound, but unfortunately, the irrational side doesn’t care. Sorry about that.
I’m not scared of labour. In fact, it’s one of those things I’ve always wanted to do, long before finding myself in the family way. Like running a marathon. You know it’s a stupid idea, you know it’s going to hurt, but you’ve just got that itch, and it’s got to be scratched. But somewhere along the way, I’ve set up some additional parameters in my head. I’ve tried very hard not to have a prescriptive idea of what labour will be like, but you just can’t help having a best case scenario, and therefore, a worst case scenario too. My best case scenario involves not going too far overdue (like, NOW would be excellent) and being able to cope with what mother nature deals us. My worst case scenario involves actually being pregnant forever. Slightly irrational, but there you go.
Assuming you don’t stay in there forever, whether you come out of your own accord, or whether you get a bit of a push in the right direction, you will be here at some point in the next week and a half or so, but if you could make it sooner rather than later, that would be just super – both for me, and for the poor people who have to come in to contact with me on a regular basis.
Lots of love,
Your grumpy mother