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.

It’s hard to say for sure how big your baby will be, but the average newborn weighs in at a little over 7 pounds and is about 20 inches long. His skull bones are not yet fused, which allows them to overlap a bit if it’s a snug fit through the birth canal during labor. This so-called “molding” is the reason your baby’s noggin may look a little conehead-ish after birth. Rest assured — it’s normal and temporary.

((Anyone notice how desiccated the child in this picture looks? He’s already drying up!))

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.