In the morning, my body is so quiet. I lie in bed waiting for this swell of muscle and pain and rhythm, and nothing ever happens. Every morning I wake up in disbelief that I am still occupied. Surely this can't be real, I think. I feel out of body. Then I feel a stir in my abdomen, a leg stretch into my ribs, and I get up and unceremoniously go to work.
At night, my belly clenches like a fist every fifteen, five, three minutes. I count every contraction with unwavering focus. But no pain. Or rarely. I pray to God that the fist brings pain. Because every day I go beyond 40 weeks, I come one day closer to an induction. My baby's resources are depleting. Her watery haven shrinks. Her skin dries out. Her movements become faint. She stops gaining weight. I've already lost four pounds. My body no longer serves her in this state. But my malingering uterus continues this show every night, promising so much, and then delivering nothing.
I can't help but feel as though I am incompetent. We have carefully prepared for a big performance, learning our lines, assembling sets and costumes, building an audience. But opening night came and went, and the star of the show failed to make an appearence. Eventually, people will stop asking with muted excitement if I've had this baby yet. Their questions will shift to statements about how I only have a few more days until they force her out. At least you only have a few more days. But I want this baby to come on her terms. So until then, I will nod and laugh politely when people tell me to uncross my legs already, and then I will imagine putting my hands around their throats and squeezing until the telling stops. Today is a good day to have a baby? I always think so.