41 weeks. the horror.

41 weeks. Artist Interpretation.

You can all stop asking me. No, I did not have the baby yet. If you want to know how far dilated/effaced I am, I will sign a release of information for you, and you can call my midwife yourself. Yes, we have tried walking/Evening Primrose Oil/sex/Indian food/breast pumping/animal sacrifices to get this baby out, so I don't really want any more suggestions, thank you very much.

Every day, I feel like I'm waking up in that movie Groundhog Day. "I Got You Babe" comes on the clock radio again, and confusion wells up in my veins that we are still sans baby. Is this real life? I need to figure out what I did wrong yesterday, and do it right today so that by tomorrow this baby has evacuated my body. I swear I'll pick up Buster's poo from my neighbor's yard (what dog poops twice on a 30 minute walk?!). I promise I won't hang up on the pollster. I won't curse at the lady who cut in front of us at First Watch, and I won't give Mitch titty twisters any more. I swear. I'll be good. Just hand over the baby.

I shouldn't complain, though. I'm still sleeping. And now that she has descended a little, my back doesn't hurt anymore. I'm having lots of contractions, so I suppose that means there's progress. She passed her nonstress yesterday with flying colors, so we're just truly grateful that she's still healthy, and they're letting us wait her out a little longer. We keep telling her that if she comes on her own terms, it will be a lot easier for everyone. I have a feeling that this is an indication of how many of our conversations with toddler Meatball will go. Put down mommy's lip stick/nail polish/Long Island iced tea and nobody gets hurt.