I am 2-3 centimeters dilated, which essentially means that I could go into labor in the next hour or two weeks from now. It's so maddening how any sign of labor has no timeline attached to it. Women have been having babies forever, yet we can't seem to find any consistent indicator of when we will actually go into labor. It could be now, it could be next week. There isn't a shred of punctuality or predictability about any of this.
Perhaps our bodies are Greek by design.
Sophie is terribly excited to meet her new sister. She tells me every day (several times a day) that Mama's going to the hospital and the doctor's going to help get Zoe out. Then Zoe is going to come home and Sophie can play dollies with Zoe. But first the doctor has to get the baby out of Sophie's tummy, too. Chris has no idea what is going on. He kisses my belly, but I think that's only because it's so massive that it's the only thing his lips can reach without mountain climbing and rappelling equipment.
I spend my days tired and cranky, and do my best not to bite anyone's head off, especially Dimitri's. Every time I stand up, I feel the kathunk of the baby's head settling a little bit lower in my stomach. And then I want to pee. Some days, it's not even worth it to get out of the bathroom. My weight gain this pregnancy has been slight, I think about six or seven pounds, but the rearrangement of what's left has been so dramatic that I feel as if I've gained fifty. My lungs are in my cheeks, my intestines are in my throat, and my poor bladder is squinched down somewhere around my knees. I feel like a Mrs. Potato Head with all the parts in the wrong holes.
Mrs. Potato Head, though, had a convenient removable panel around the back, as I recall. That, given my situation, would be really handy in the next hour or the next two weeks.
I'm anxious. I'm not scared, exactly. Scared isn't the right word. I'm not scared of things I can't avoid. I am scared of avoidable things, like bear attacks or not studying for math finals, but this train has only one destination and my being scared ain't-a-gonna change the conductor's mind. I'm worried that if I go into labor on my own, that I will have a repeat of the horror of Chris' birth. The rapidity, the screaming, (oh, the screaming. Did I ever tell you that I actually scared the OB with all my screaming?) and the LACK OF DRUGS AT THE END WHEN THE WORLD WAS CRASHING DOWN AROUND ME. Let's be clear: I am amazed at how excellent the outcome of a drug-free birth was; Chris was alert and responsive, I felt like a million dollars, I was up and walking soon after birth, and my recovery was nothing short of miraculous. HOWEVER, and this is a however big enough to print on a Jumbotron, all blinky and set to Queen's "We Will Rock You," it was so shocking how jaw-droppingly, jaggedly, obscenely painful it was. The outcome was wonderful, but the process was something that I wouldn't inflict on anyone.
Except for maybe Hitler. Hitler could have done with a little natural childbirth. But that's it.
Some women have a deep well inside them. It's a well of strength and self-determination from which they draw the bravery, serenity, and courage to go through childbirth without opiates. They can put their mind in a place of peace and repose long enough to pop out a baby with nary a grunt. These women deserve our respect and admiration. Their partners, husbands, and families should stand in perpetual awe of these incredible paragons of power and selflessness.
But my OB and I agree: I am definitely not one of those women.
I have a high tolerance for pain, I do. I'm not a wimp. But there's a line drawn in the sand of my brain, a line past which I think that if there's relief, and my insurance is willing to cover the expense of it: BRING IT ON. GIVE ME TWO. If my husband is being helpful, give him one, too.
Given the speed at which my second labor progressed, and knowing that labors tend to get faster the more that you have them, I'm seriously worried that this little girl is going to be born in the car. My doctor wants to induce at 39 weeks if I haven't delivered by then, but I don't really want that either.
See what I did just there? Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Jen McHypocrite. I don't want the drug intervention of an induction, but y'all can hook me up to an epidural pump right now if you like. If I go into labor before 39 weeks (please oh please oh please oh please) the decision is made for me: all I can do then is hope like hell that Dim's car can drive faster than my uterus can work its magic. But if this kid hangs on until 39 weeks, then an induction is on the menu.
I know that I'm overthinking things, and this will all seem so silly once the baby's here (soon, please oh please oh please) but I don't have much else to do these days. All I can hope for is that well that I mentioned earlier taps into a larger underground aquifer that I can dig into, too.