Hello little one! It’s official – as of today, we are considered full-term. That’s wonderful news, because even though I have wanted to see you for a long time, I knew you needed to bake for at least 37 weeks. I didn’t want you to be a preemie, because I want you to have a healthy start.
But when I woke up this morning, it was like someone turned a switch. The timer on my oven has gone off and you’re hanging out on the “warming” setting. Now that we’re full-term, I’M READY. Our due date is still 3 weeks away, and there’s a good chance you’ll be born even a few days later than that. I’ve been told most first babies are late, and my brother and I both hung around past our due dates when your Nana had us. I figure we’ll probably get to meet you sometime in the next 4 weeks, but I want to meet you NOW.
It’s like I know Santa Claus is coming and I’ve been an exceptionally good girl, but no one can tell me when Christmas Eve will happen. It’s also like I know I have to run a marathon, but have no idea when the starting pistol will fire. I’m having a hard time focusing on anything at work except you. I think about you when I go to sleep. I think about you when I wake up. I poke at your elbow to make sure you’re still wiggly. I think every backache is the beginning of back labor. I’m going to drive your daddy insane.
We are definitely looking very pregnant, and it’s funny to see how differently people react now when they see us. We were at church Sunday and I needed to use the restroom (again), but I wasn’t sure where it was. When I asked an usher, he looked me over and said, “Oh dear.”
I stared blankly back. What did “Oh dear” mean?
He informed me the restroom was down the stairs, through the chapel and in the back of the church. I’m not sure if he was afraid I was going to pee on myself or afraid I’d go into labor in the chapel, but we were just fine.
My big belly also seems to be an automatic ice breaker with strangers. People who I imagine wouldn’t normally give me a second glance are quick to start up a conversation. I was getting Chinese take-out yesterday, and walking back to my when car a woman in the parking lot rolled down her window and asked, “How much longer do you have?”
“Three weeks.”
“I bet you’ll be glad when you’re done!” She chuckled. It was a friendly exchange – one that I’m sure wouldn’t have happened if we’d only had the weather to discuss.
The question I get most often now is, “When are you going to have that baby?”
The qusestion hasn’t gotten annoying yet, because it’s the same one I’m asking myself about twice every nanosecond. It might get old 4 weeks from now if you’re still cooking, but for now I just reply, “I don’t know, you tell me! Got any ideas?”
I’m trying not to be too impatient, because I know I’ll miss your little kicks and rolls. But I really want to nibble on your ears and blow raspberries on your belly, so anytime you’d like to come out and say hello, we’re ready and waiting. We love you very much!