I am writing this at 3 AM on day 6 of week 41 of this pregnancy. Little Brother had an estimated ETA of January 15 and it is now January 28. I begin to suspect that, left to his own devices, he might prove me wrong on the whole “no way we make it to February” thing.
This has not been an easy couple of weeks. No lovely babymoon, laidback nesting, or sweet family moments. Instead it’s been a big game of “who can get the worst version of the world’s nastiest head cold” punctuated by toddler insomnia, arguments, and stress. Maybe this kid just doesn’t want any part of this world at this point.
I’ve had a couple of decent rounds of contractions; in fact, the ones I had at lunch time yesterday had me convinced that we’d be on the postpartum floor by now, but then they stopped and I haven’t had any decent ones since. I guess the plus side to that is that it has given me more time to rest, eat, and get over the worst of this germ. I wish it had also given R more time to get the house ready for Baby (as I’m far past the point of physically being able to clean) but he of course has been far sicker than I’ve been and has been able to do little beyond hold down the sofa.
On Tuesday my second non-stress test showed that Baby was healthy and comfortable. A cervical check showed that I was about 3.5 to 4 cm, very thin, very low baby. Midwife felt confident we were likely within 48 hours. At that time we discussed inducing on Friday, hopefully using a more natural method with minimal side effects, but it was only usable if I were less than 5 cm by then. After all the start-and-stop contractions since then, I have no faith that this is still an option.
That means I’m staring down the probability of a medical induction complete with extensive monitoring, IV drip, much higher risk of surgery, and everything else I had so hoped to avoid. This just needs to get over with. Nothing else is right about this at this point — in fact, very little about this pregnancy has been “right”; what difference does it make now if I have the birth experience I’d wanted? Whatever.
I’ve definitely had moments of positivity and good humor about this. The wee hours of the morning, on the Xth night in a row that I’d so strongly believed would be interrupted by real labor, is not one of them. Right now I feel beyond dejected and am all the way into “feeling like a total failure” mode. What the heck is wrong with my body that it won’t kick into gear? Like, literally — is something wrong?
Sigh.
Consolation: it will all be over in the next few days, one way or the other. Every day of waiting is another day for me to remember the bad aspects of labor, of course, so I’m all nervous now. I’m tired of feeling sure that it will “be today” and then being disappointed. The whole extended family is on anxious standby and that makes me feel like crap too. I’m by nature a patient person (although it runs out) but not everyone in my family is, and I know this is making them crazy.
I just want to hold my baby. Like, two weeks ago. 
I suppose I ought to try to go back to sleep. It’s 4 AM now and nothing has happened to get us any closer to a natural showtime in the past hour. Got a tickle in my throat though that may keep me up. Blah. Poor me, right? Haha. Well, now that I’ve whined for a few paragraphs, maybe I can get back to an optimistic mood in the morning.
Did You Have Juice? 