He’s Not a Timely One

It is currently 18 minutes past midnight. 18 minutes into his due date. If this were college, I’d have been allowed to get up and leave 3 minutes ago.

I realize that the 1st was his estimated due date. I realize that it’s really just a guess that comes from that magic spinny wheel of fortune the doctor’s use when you go into your first appointment. I also realize his father and I are late to every single commitment we ever make, albeit never more than 10 minutes. However, I was hoping this child would recognize that today is his day to arrive. He has an appointment. It is time. He’d pull up his nakey britches, pop that water and come sliding out like a grape from it’s skin.

He is not.

Instead he is currently playing with my bladder and lodging his toes between my ribs. He’s occasionally getting the “hiccups”, which I am now convinced are just bubbles from him laughing hysterically at making me wait.

We spent the day with my parents. They took us to dinner and a movie so it’d keep my mind off things. My mom kept saying, “It’ll be the last time we’re just us four.” Followed by, “I don’t think he’ll come until the 7th.” My dad, on the other hand, made me want to smack him much less by saying he’s sure he’ll come on the 2nd. Eric and I both think this will be much like the flip before the midwife appointment. He’ll wait until some other authority figure is paying attention and then do the right thing. He’ll probably initiate labor on the table at the midwives’ practice. We are apparently not authoritative enough for him.

So, place your bets, ladies. How late will he be? He’s obviously not the “just barely late enough to use the traffic excuse”, which his father and I tend to be. He’s either “fashionably late” (approaching very quickly), “late enough to still get a couple drinks, but the keg’s half tapped and everyone’s mostly drunk”, or “so late everyone’s either already gone home with their one night stand or is passed out on the couch next to the one person they told their friends not to let them go home with.” I’m betting he’ll be the latter…or the guy that shows up so late he’s stuck helping scrape the beer nuts off the floor.

Filed under 3rd Trimester, pregnancy, rant |