They say it's my due date (dun-na-na-na-na-na-na) but apparently somebody didn't get the invite. (As Comfortingly Gay doctor put it, "Whole lotta nothin', hon.") There's something so disheartening about arriving at your due date only to discover that very little has changed in almost three weeks. I've bounced, I've walked, I've cajoled and climbed stairs. I'm calling to make an appointment with an acupuncturist and will soon be pursuing all the other routes you mamas know so well. (For those who aren't mamas, the routes are far more ookifying than acupuncture, trust me.) Something's got to motivate this kid! (My niece, the comedic genius, suggested placing a tiny glass of orange juice Down There. I'm not ruling it out.)
A friend of mine with two healthy, adorable kids said that her midwife recommended a glass of wine at night to make things a little more relaxed. Having bought hook, line and sinker into the whole No Drinking While Procreating thing I feel a little iffy about tippling, but I can't lie and say that a half a glass of red wouldn't do me a world of good. Of course I had to call the doctors office and ask if it was okay and of course I got Mean Doctor who belittled me for asking such a ridiculous question and why did I want to know if I could drink and who was this midwife who recommended this and did I honestly think it would help bring on labor and... and... a half a glass of wine probably wouldn't harm the baby. (I discovered that it's not just me he loathes. I heard him on the phone this morning berating a woman for passing out at her amnio. He kept going, "But why did you pass out? What would make you pass out?" I wanted to shout, "The REALLY BIG FUCKING NEEDLE IN HER STOMACH is what made her pass out, asshat!" But since there's a strong possibility that he'll be delivering my child, I felt it best to keep my trap shut.)
I'm supposed to go in on Monday to get checked again. I have absolutely no interest in getting induced unless I absolutely, positively have to and the doctors seem to feel the same way. That said, if I wait until week 42 - which is the longest they'll let me go - it'll just be the baby and me. (Matt will be back at work and mom will be gone by then.) That prospect? Grim indeed.