One day countdown until I’m sure nothing will happen. My mother went late. My grandmother went late. I, too, will probably go late.

I’ve had no contractions in 3 days. Not one. Not even a “hey, still thinking about maybe letting this child out soon…maybe” little twitch. He has firmly planted himself in head down, engaged and ready to do nothing position just to drive me insane. There is no doubt that he is my child, he’s going to stick it out until he’s scaled and scabbed, just like I did.

I love him dearly and while I do think I’ll be a bit sad no longer having him all to myself, the pain that’s accompanying these final weeks is ridiculous. In any other situation, being unable to lift your legs because your hips pop out of place would be a bad thing that would require testing and medication to make you normal. Pregnant? “It’s normal, just try not to move so much.” If you told your doctor, “My foot’s so swollen, it feels like my skin is being ripped in two. The last two toes are the size of hot dogs. Yes, hot dogs.” He’d probably bring you in and take your blood and squish your foot around to see what the hell’s going on. Pregnant? They touch your giant ankle that is bulging out of your Crocs (the only shoes that even remotely come near to fitting you) and say, “Eh, it’s not that bad.”

Here is where you get down on your knees and scream like a whiney little girl, “It IS that bad, though! I look like the Michelin man! I’m in pain! I’m tired! I can’t roll over in bed and my brain has stopped working! HELP ME!” They look at you with that gentle know-it-all smile, and say, “Any day now,” as you waddle off trying your best not to plan their untimely death, or at least not to say it outloud.