Girl’s Doogal was born July 5th, 2007 at 11:29pm. Just in time to see his grandma. I’m incredibly happy for her. Congratulations!

Today was my 40 week, 5 day appointment. Yesterday my midwife’s office called to confirm today’s appointment.
“Jessica? I just wanted to confirm tomorrow’s appointment at 10am.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“You haven’t had the baby, yet, have you?”
“*sigh* I wish.”
“Oh. Okay. I was hoping we could cancel the appointment. Heh heh heh.”

Yeah, great. Heh heh heh. Being this pregnant in the summer makes me a shitty, unhappy person. I’m not up for jokes. It made me want to rip her head off.

So, all night long I tried to convince myself and my body that it was going to be ready at the appointment tomorrow. I was going to be dilated. I was going to be effaced. I was not going to leave without being checked, without a set and ready plan to have this baby this weekend. I woke up ready for the best, despite my intuition saying otherwise.

We got a midwife I’d never met before. She was very sweet. They’re all very sweet. Well, except one who reminds me a little of a cold nun and who attempts to rip the baby out of me feeling his position. She said, “Well, you’re overdue. Looks like it’s time to check you!”
“That would make my day,” I was probably a little too enthusiastic. “I can’t believe it’d make my day, but it would.”
And that’s exactly what she did. I was much less enthusiastic once I felt exactly what checking was – a hand up to the wrist shoved in the most sensitive spot on earth, while the fingers thump at the most sensitive spot on the most sensitive place on earth.

“Well…let me try to massage your cervix to get a few contractions,” She says. This should NOT be called massage. A massage is something you enjoy, something to relax you and make your life okay. This does not make your life okay. In fact, I’d venture to say that it makes your life so completely un-okay that calling it “massage” should be illegal.

“Okay, well,” she removed her arm from my vagina and helped me up. I was still smiling, I was going to get good news, dammit. “You’re entirely closed and, well, uh, you could be softer.” My smile stayed plastered but I know my eyes turned into puppy-dog-who-was-just-kicked-for-licking-you-eyes. “BUT! It is anterior.”
“Well, that’s good,” smile still plastered. I wanted her to leave. I wanted to cry.

The minute she said I had nothing going on, I felt like a complete failure. I’m tired of being in pain. I’m tried of not being able to sleep. I’m tried of feeling like hell all the time. But those feelings I could deal with. It was the feeling that, at 1 week past my due date (2 weeks, if you go by the original one), I had made no progress that made my eyes well up and my heart stop beating.

NOTHING going on? How is that even possible? Half the pregnant women I talk to have something going on. Some of them are as far away as 3 weeks from their due date. What is wrong with me? Is my pelvis too small for the baby’s head? Is that why it’s not pressing down on anything and I’m not dilating? You know, that happened to my mom. She was too small, she had to have a c-section at 43 weeks, after a failed and extremely painful induction. Is that what’s going to happen? I’m scared of inductions and c-sections. Maybe I’m just not built to have babies. Or maybe he just doesn’t like me or doesn’t trust me. Maybe he’s just waiting for me to say he’s going to be adopted by a loving family in a better home with more money and the absolute competence to take care of him. Eric says this is ridiculous. I still feel dejected.

I know that a baby’s term can be as long as 42 weeks. I know “he’ll come when he’s ready”. I also know my family’s histories of first births and none of them are happy. My grandma nearly died with hers, my mom nearly died with me. I came out via c-section with nearly no amniotic fluid left, covered in meconium and scabs from staying in so long. I know waiting as long as they did to do something about mom’s pregnancy with me nearly ended up killing both of us. Being my child, I don’t know if I can trust that he’ll know when he’s ready.

“Let me call the hospital, see if we can get you in for an induction on Thursday the 12th,” she said it like it was nothing.
“I was hoping you could do it like tomorrow. Heh.”
“We want to give you enough time to go on your own.”
I wanted to say there was no point. There’s something wrong with me. He won’t come before the induction. You’re going to have to induce me and it will go on for days, like my mom’s labor. You’ll figure out that my body is just not made to give birth. You’ll figure this out after days of pain. I’ll end up with an emergency c-section. There just really is no point in trying anything else.
“What we do is use Cytotec the night before, then Pitocin in the morning.”
I flailed. She just said the two scariest words in the English language to me in one sentence. In one sentence that described what they were going to do to me. Cytotec and Pitocin. Cytotec – the cheap, ULCER medication that the manufacturer has repeatedly asked physicians to stop using as a cervix ripener. The medication that causes hyperstimulation of the uterus and uterine rupture. And Pitocin? The one drug everyone agrees is evil and I should knock anyone out that attempts to give it to me.
“Uh, what about Cervadil. I’ve heard some bad things about Cytotec…”
“We don’t use Cervadil in this hospital. We haven’t had any problems with Cytotec. We wouldn’t use it if we did.”
This didn’t make me feel any better.
“I’ll be with you on the 13th.” Here it dawns on me that he’ll be born on Friday the 13th. “And *insert cold midwife with the rip-your-baby-right-out-of-your-belly-hands here* will be with you on the 12th.”

So that’s going to be my birth? Major pain inducing medication, attached to an IV, resigned to being stuck in bed, being watched by the scariest midwife we had, probably ending up with the need for an epidural, and finally a c-section. That’s exactly what I feared the most. That’s exactly what I’m expecting.

She handed me my inducement paper and told me to make an appointment for Monday. A non-stress test, followed by an ultrasound to check amniotic fluid, followed by a regular check-up.

I walked out of the office, trying my hardest not to cry and feeling like a complete failure.

Eric’s been awesome. He keeps trying to ground me, “It’s fine. He’ll come when he’s ready. You will be fine. He will be fine. You’re doing your best and I’m proud of you.”

But I am not proud of me. I’m tired, I’m in pain, I’m dejected, I’m a failure and I feel like a complete jerk for feeling this way.

Day 2 of “The Little Brat is Past Due” and I have officially broken down and purchased castor oil – not to be confused with Castrol oil, which apparently happens so often it is the first warning on one of the “castor oil inducement” pages.

Before I’m yelled at:
Yes, I do realize this increases the chance of meconium. However, they also think the fact that, since most women who use castor oil are overdue, them being overdue is what increases the chance of meconium.
Yes, I do know it can cause dehydration. I plan to drink water and lots of it. Even while having explosive diarrhea.
Yes, I do understand that you must be effaced and dilated at least a little bit for it to work. I, honestly, have no idea if anything is happening down there since none of my midwives want to look at my vagina (it has me feeling quite dejected).
No, I don’t plan on using it until after the midwives do an internal and tell me if I’m progressing. I plan to beg them to do so at my next appointment on Friday or threaten to cry until they do.
No, I don’t plan on doing it without my midwife’s knowledge.
Yes, I have tried basil, to no avail.
Yes, I have tried pumping, to no avail.
Yes, I have tried sex, to no avail.
Yes, I have tried pineapple and it gave me a burn inside my lip and on my tongue. It also gave me an allergic reaction. Fresh pineapple is evil.

So my plan is as follows (I should make a flow chart):
If the child doesn’t come between now and Friday’s appointment, I will beg the midwife to look into my vagina.
If my cervix is not doing a damn thing, I will then beg the midwife to schedule me for a Cervadil intervention that evening. I realize this is cheating. I realize this goes against my natural childbirth thing. I do not care.
If my cervix is ripe and ready, I will beg my midwife to schedule me to go in that evening and have my membranes ruptured. Again, I realize this is cheating, going against natural childbirth, yadda yadda yadda. Don’t care.
If my cervix is doing something but not enough, I will then beg my midwife to sweep my membranes as if she hated me with all the fiery passion in her soul. I will then drive through Wendy’s, get a couple of Frosties, and taint them with castor oil. I will come home, drink 1st of said Frosties and take a hot shower. I will pump while eating basil on pineapple ice cream with black & blue cohosh drops mixed into my red raspberry tea, all while having sex and keeping myself hydrated. I will try my best not have explosive diarrhea all over my husband. I will start all over with the second Frosty two hours later if none of the above works the first time.

And that, my dear friends, is my plan.

My foot has never been a skinny minnie. She’s always been quite a chubberoo, but a cute chubberoo. I’m sad to say I no longer feel any love for my foot. It’s 12″ around today. My foot is a foot around. And that fold in the ankle? My foot’s stretched out. The fold is from the swelling. My toes feel like they’re on fire, the entire thing is throbbing and it’s not responding to any sort of nice treatment or kind words. I do believe I may be the first woman to give birth through her ankle. It definitely feels that way.

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.