I had been told by everyone in the entire world, and I completely understood, that due dates are essentially meaningless. I knew the Fetus would liberate itself when it sees fit, and only when it sees fit (or is forced out by the medical team at Foothills Hospital).
But seriously, I am goal oriented. I am the person who counts down the sleeps until Christmas starting in October. I like to check dates off, rip the calendar pages down, draw big Xs.
This is not working to my advantage, it seems.
I'm sure that over the course of the
I have since learned the error of my ways. When you are 40 weeks pregnant and feel like you've swallowed a beach ball inhabited by a hyperactive frog and it hurts to sit/stand/lie down/move, there is nothing appealing about that particular labour inducing technique. I'm also sure that if you're married to someone who is 40 weeks pregnant and who feels like they've swallowed a beach ball inhabited by a hyperactive frog, who bitches about how hard it is to put on pants and how much it hurts to simply exist, the idea isn't really that appealing either.
I have never had so many people interested in the state of my cervix before, and I hope that as soon as the baby is delivered, no one will ever ask again. I am not a shy person, but I don't really think I need to discuss those specifics with everyone I know.
But anyway. I'm still pregnant. Here I am. Waiting. And every time I move and feel something funny, I think, "THIS IS IT!"*
But it's not, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to be pregnant forever.
*It, for the record, is usually gas. I have never been more attractive in my entire life.