Today is my due date, everyone. According to my Doctor, he was supposed to be here by now, but he is lodged in there so tight, it seems like it’s going to take some actual coaxing to get him out. None of this would be the case if I had just blown my Doctor’s initial predictions off, and were actually willing to just give my body and my baby the time and patience it needs. If you have read anything on this blog, you know this about me: patience is not my strong point, especially when I am in this delicate condition.
The last week has brought me many sleepless nights. I have been having bizarre vivid dreams that have rarely have anything to do with babies or being pregnant, and I have been waking up at least 3 times a night to pee, or due to crippling heartburn, or because of aching body parts. I have been waking up at weird hours completely unable to fall asleep. Worst of all, I have been laying in bed at night scared shitless.
Giving birth and welcoming new life and changes is scary. No matter what any experienced crunchy midwife tells you, it does hurt, it is scary, and for the next several days afterward, you feel the weirdest you’ve ever felt in your life. I can’t even adequately account for the slew of contradicting adjectives that describe the post-birth state. I haven’t so much been afraid of the labor part, even though that is part of it, I have mostly been frightened by the baby part of it. Not even just the baby part in particular, really the all of it part.
I’m afraid that I am hardly cut out to take care of Deven, let alone two Devens. I am afraid that all of our troubles are going to be compounded by a million once the new hungry mouth is brought home. I’m afraid that I’m going to be so overwhelmed with domestic duties that I won’t be able to finish school. I feel ashamed that I’m almost 26 years old, and so far, compared to most people my age, I have done nothing with my life except reproduce. Yes, this is an improvement compared to the direction that I was headed in before kids, but it’s still not at all what I pictured for myself.
When I described this to my brother, he used the term “buyer’s remorse,” except in that situation, I could make a trip to the mall and make a return, and everything would be fine again. This is cold feet in it’s truest form. I want nothing more than to give in to these fears, rip off this ridiculous fat suit and run.
But I can’t. I couldn’t leave my 3 1/2 year old, or my husband, and I can’t give up on this baby. There it is. What is done is done, and there is no turning back.
I wanted this so badly. We tried for 8 months to have a baby, endured a miscarriage, and were elated when we found out we were finally pregnant back in August. Is this normal to want out this badly? Is it?
I haven’t even gotten to the birth part. Yesterday at my Doctor’s appointment, there was still no change, and so she and I both decided to go ahead and induce. On Thursday. No, not Thursday the 21st, Thursday the 14th, as in the day after my due date. I always said I would never induce, that women impatiently giving into that desire to be done before their bodies are ready is part of the reason so many pregnancies end in unnecessary surgeries. I even told a high school girl who was writing an essay on a documentary called The Business of Being Born that the best piece of advice I could gather from my education of birth: don’t get induced unless you have to. Yep. Biggest fucking hypocrite in the world right here.
I feel guilty for agreeing to be induced. There is no solid, black-or-white reason for doing it, like my blood pressure is really high, or the baby is really big. I can’t even justify it to myself, let alone to other inquiring minds. Truth is: I just want him out NOW. I held onto the idea that it could happen much, much sooner than this, and when it didn’t, I became incredibly frustrated. I’m not much different than other women who elect to be induced: I’m uncomfortable and I’m ready, and it works out best this way. It works out with Vance’s new schedule to plan the birth of the baby. It works out for the family as well. Yeah, it’s convenient.
My doctor doesn’t think it will take much, seeing how close I have been to delivering for so long. Yes, I know I am putting myself at risk for a possible c-section, and the baby at risk for a possible bumpy ride, a bumpier one than he would have had being born on his own time. I struggle with that. What if it’s not the right decision? What if all I’m doing is putting us in harm’s way? Not just me anymore, but my baby? Would it really kill me to wait just a little bit longer? Of course it wouldn’t. In my head and my heart, I feel like it’ll be okay. I know that neither of them are completely reliable most of the time, but I trust them in this decision. I trust that my body is ready enough that a little push will be enough to send this baby careening into the world, or as I would rather picture it: shooting out like a cannonball. Yeah. Drink that one in.
There is always so much uncertainty. I was never for a second this freaked out when I was pregnant with Deven, even at the end. I was so excited at the prospect of motherhood and even labor. I had 0 expectations. I’m finding it so hard to want this as badly. I’m finding it really hard to be plain happy, let alone excited.
I desperately need some Xanax and a Margarita if I’m expected to get through this. At the very least, can you find it in your heart to pray for me, if thats what you do, or send me some positive labor vibes that everything will go smoothly tomorrow?