39 weeks is the cruelest month, bringing
contractions that produce nothing, mixing
hope with annoyance, stirring sleeping husbands
in the middle of the night, whispering “hey, time this!”
(my apologies to T.S. Eliot. But not really.)
Yesterday marked the 39th week of this wonderful, miraculous, gestational period. Ahhh….there’s nothing like humbly participating with God in the creation of new life to really flood my soul with peace and docility.
Bwa-hahahahaha! I actually had to look up the word “docility” to make sure it was the right one, so often do I not use it.
My cousin came in from NYC to visit for the weekend, and I thought it would be fantastic if I went into labor while she was here. She doesn’t have any children, and up until yesterday afternoon, had never even felt the gigantic, horrifying freakshow that is another human being writhing about under someone else’s skin.
So I made sure we fixed that. She made sure she didn’t pass out while feeling the baby’s heel skim its across my abdomen.
But still, it wasn’t enough. After all, what else says, “gracious hostess” quite like dragging unenthused participants into the excitement of labor and delivery?
Last night I thought I was going to go into labor. Ken, my cousin and I sat up and watched 3:10 to Yuma, while consistent contractions kept me distracted from the plot. When the movie ended, and Ken and I were getting into bed, I whispered to him that we may need to start timing things, and maybe a few hours from now I’d get to gleefully wake my sleeping cousin and tell her, “Hasta la vista, we’re going to the hospital to have a baby, and you get to figure out what to make five screaming savages for breakfast. Have fun!”
Clearly, God likes my cousin more than He likes me, since the contractions did not go anywhere, I didn’t go anywhere, and I was the one who had to figure out what to make five screaming savages for breakfast.
Docility. It’s my middle name.
Today, we visited the Hartford Children’s Museum, where I tried to put myself into labor by walking the seven million, decidedly stroller unfriendly stairs, and chasing after five screaming savages. Still nothing. I couldn’t help notice that “Connie”, the giant fiberglass sperm whale statue outside the museum seemed to smirk at my labor-inducing efforts, despite our strong resemblance our bodies shared.
From the museum, I rode in the van to the train station, where we all said goodbye to a visibly relieved-I-didn’t-go-into-labor-while-she-was-there cousin. While Ken drove us home, I moodily checked the blogs of two other women I know who are also in their peaceful, docile, 39th week, mostly to make sure they hadn’t gone into labor and left me behind.
Misery loves company and all that.
I started compiling a Twitter list of labor inducing suggestions, ranging from the delicious (eat pineapple) to the- er- intimate (figure it out yourself). The absolute best, however, is this one, which I fully plan on using on my due date, which is this Saturday:
But the day wasn’t all me, me, me, listen to me complain about how docile I am during the twilight of this pregnancy. No! Today Deacon Tom of Catholic Vitamins told me that his interview with me was posted (ok, so it is all me, me, me). The extremely complimentary and deeply patient Deacon spoke with me about God’s plan for my life, giving me a chance to talk (at greeeeeeaaaaaaat length) about the spiritual formation I’m in, the Disciples of Jesus and Mary. Go give it a listen.
But before you go, tell me your favorite labor-inducing trick in the combox.
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