Pregnancy is countdown from start to finish, waiting. First you wait to tell people, then you wait for your ultrasound and the first glimpse of your baby, then you wait for your belly to show, then you wait for your belly to be big enough to buy your first pair of maternity pants, you wait for your first midwife appointment. You wait, you wait, you wait.
I am still waiting. At 41 weeks and 2 days the baby still hasn’t expressed any wish to come out and say hello to us.
The girl arrived four days past her due date. It was a Wednesday. The day before I had a couple of contractions, but I was unsure if it was anything. I woke up Wednesday morning at 3 and knew something was happening. By 12:43 she was out. It was fast and unrealistic because it was nothing like I had expected it to be. I had expected days of contractions and long hours at the hospital and giving birth was nothing like this.
Today I am 9 days past my due date. I have Braxton Hicks contractions, but that’s it. There is absolutely nothing indicating an imminent birth. As I dropped off the girl at daycare one of the helpers asked me when I would be induced. Sunday, I answered. “Good luck,” she whispered and upon seeing my face “I am sure it will happen before that.” I thanked her – turning my back to her so she couldn’t see the tears well up in my eyes – and ran out the door.
Lots of people are induced, I know, and somehow I still se it as a failure. I feel as if my body isn’t able to do the one thing its supposed to: give birth.
I have a friend who’s been struggling to conceive for two years. She became pregnant via fertility treatment recently, but lost the baby. I have friends who are still single and wondering whether the dream of a husband and kids will be nothing but just that: a dream. My brother and his wife dreamed of four or five kids. They have two – one biological and one adopted – because neither nature nor economy was ever on their side.
I am a giant arse for feeling like I do. GIANT. I am the luckiest person alive. I wanted a second child, I am carrying it, it is healthy and kicking. My daughter can’t wait to become a big sister. She can’t wait to watch the baby play with all her old toys. I have a husband who is looking forward to becoming a father again and to loving me even more than he does already for giving him a bigger family.
I am a giant arse for feeling like I do. GIANT. But I am being honest. The idea of having to be helped, the idea that my body can’t do this on its own makes me sad, makes me cry. It’s stupid, but nonetheless the truth.
I apologise for being quite. See you on the flip side…