I’m being induced.
My body’s like, “Eh, I don’t feel like birthing this baby. I’ve done enough work to grow her, you’re on your own.”
And my baby’s like, “You know, I’m comfy where I am, so I’m going to hang out here for a while.”
And my doctors said, ”We don’t want you going more than one week past your due date, so we’re going to induce you. And we’re going to use a balloon to get things started. And it’s going to hurt and we’re not going to give you pain medication. But you knew giving birth wasn’t going to be a walk in the park, right?”
And I blink.
Blink, blink. Blink. Blink, blink.
In a way, I’m grateful to know exactly when she’s coming because we know how much child-free time we have left (which will be spent partying hard-core in the suburbs, I can assure you… not really) and we have time to prepare as much as possible.
But now I have this date looming over my head. This date that’s going to be THE MOST defining date of my life. More defining than the day I earned my driver’s license, or the day became a college graduate, or the day I became a wife or the day I became a home owner. This will be the day I become a mother. A parent. Fully responsible for a life other than mine. Nothing else will change me as fully or as permanently and I’m scared. I’ll admit it: I’M SCARED.
But I can’t wait to meet her.
When I was in the middle of calling family and friends to let them know that I’m scheduled to be induced, I went to call my grandfather. I didn’t, of course, but I wanted to.
I imagine he would have told me that everything was going to be fine, that it’s alright if the baby’s not ready to come, that she can take her time.
He would have told me not to be scared, that the doctors know what they’re doing.
And he would have told me – again – that this baby is the best thing that could have ever happened to me.
He would have been so, so excited, and he would have been counting down the days – the very few days – until her scheduled arrival.
Me: I almost didn’t answer the phone because the number came up as (666) 666-6666.
Jason (in a whisper): It’s because I work for the government.
It’s my due date. Or is it my baby’s due date? Whose due date is it, Universe? WHOSE DUE DATE IS IT?
Dun, dun, dunnnnnnnn.
But there’s no baby. I’ve been telling her it’s okay to come, that we’re ready for her, we’re waiting for her. I don’t think she believes me.
So, since my pregnancy is technically over now (except not at all), I was thinking of the best and worst things about it.
Here you go.
5. Having flu-like symptoms for nearly two months
4. Peeing in a cup a million times
3. Stretch marks
2. Swelling and all of its side-effects
1. The constant worrying (about her, about me, about my marriage, about daycare, about Murphy, about EVERYTHING)
5. Being in awe of what my body is capable of
4. Smiles from random strangers
3. Revealing our baby news to family and friends
2. Learning her gender
1. Being in bed with Allan, his hands on my belly, both of us feeling our daughter move
I woke-up on Sunday morning at 5:00 and tossed and turned, tossed and turned.
It was partially because of the numbness in my arms/hands, and partially because I couldn’t turn my brain off.
I left the bedroom, went into the bonus room and tried to sleep on the couch. That didn’t work, either.
Then I sat on the floor of the nursery with the dog. And then I went into the spare room and looked out the window onto the sleeping neighborhood.
Then Allan came out to get me and made me get back into bed. He pulled me onto him, so that my head was on his shoulder and his face was against my forehead, and wrapped his arms around me.
I thought I’d stay there for maybe five minutes before getting uncomfortable again.
Instead, I slept till 9:00.
And that, ladies and gentleman, is why I married that man.
I didn’t want to do a maternity shoot or anything fancy. I didn’t want to show my gross stomach off in front of a lens, or do a whole series with outfit changes and different locations. I just wanted one or two nice pictures of my family as it stands now: me, my husband and my dog.
So my wonderful friend, Jenn, came over and was sweet enough to snap a few pictures in our yard. Allan was acting like a four-year-old, barely able to control his jokes and silliness (I think because he’s so happy), and Murphy, well, he was Murphy. He was running towards Jenn to give kisses, running to see which neighborhood kids were in the street, smelling anything that was near him.
The sun was shining high and bright, we were all sweating like crazy, and I was trying to fake happiness when all I could think was “Ugh, I look/feel like a whale.”
And still, we got some great shots.
I’m so happy to have the pictures. I’m so happy to have captured this moment in time because life with this man and this dog has been joyful beyond my wildest dreams. And I’m going to miss it.