The Final Countdown, Medieval Style

from Cathi, the really-really-close-Choice Mom-in-the-making, who had her last day of work today and is awaiting induction in a week if Junior doesn't decide to appear of her own volition first

I woke up this morning, just like any other day. I struggled to awkwardly roll to one side and basically fall out of bed, just like any other day the past three months. And I fielded questions all day about Junior’s imminent arrival, just like I have for the past few weeks.

No, I haven’t gone into labor yet. I would be having a much more difficult time forming coherent sentences if that were the case. Yes, I’m excited, in much the same way as if you were told you were going to be given a $1 million dollar shopping spree and have an appendage cut off. No, I’m pretty sure that the next eight weeks off work will not be like a vacation, what with the copious bleeding and screeching baby and lack of sleep.

I knew I wasn’t going to deliver on my due date, so the letdown isn’t as bad as you might think. Everyone in my family goes late, and none of my recent bodily violations — aka doctor’s appointments — had given me any false hope about Junior being cooperative. I expected no less from a daughter of mine.

That being said, it doesn’t help with the impatience or the discomfort or the irritability. This is the real reason women were confined back in the day – so they wouldn’t annoy the hell out of everyone else. Or have access to labor-inducing devices. Which back then were herbs and, what? Donkey rides? Those lucky wenches, I’d love to be locked in a quiet dark room and fed weak broth and not be tormented by a telephone or laptop or well-meaning friends and family.

I am definitely becoming more open to other perspectives. I am learning to judge less. I have a new awareness and understanding of the lengths some women go to in their attempts to jump-start the labor process, and the mindset lurking behind the spicy foods and long walks. Suddenly all kinds of gels and tocins and inflatable catheters don’t seem like such bad ideas. A simple, scheduled c-section would be an afternoon picnic with watercress sandwiches. Do you think a donkey ride would help with the midnight back labor or the headaches or me just being a raving lunatic?

I know the end is near, in a good way, and likewise a whole new scary and wonderful beginning. It just can’t come fast enough when time is no longer measured in months or weeks or even days. Look, another minute just went by – can I have her now?