Three years ago today, was Noah’s due date. It did not, however, end up being his birthday. For some unknown, cruel, and un-Godly reason, doctors think it is appropriate to set a “deadline” of sorts on your pregnancy.
They have some fancy 40-week calendar based on your last period as to when you are expected to have your baby. But babies don’t give a flying flip about this calendar. Babies don’t know when your last period was. Yet, instead of giving a range of dates or a goal to shoot for or even a healthy window of time, doctors give you a flat-out, no nonsense, in your face due date of which you are considered abnormal if you are under or over.
So me, being the freakishly type-A, over-controlling, and detailed-oriented person that I am, now have 9 months (which would turn out to be much longer) to plan for, worry about, and obsess over this very specific date.
Well, as I would learn later (and I am still being reminded of on a daily basis), Noah laughs in the face of deadlines. And July 28th, three years ago, was just another day in the uterus for him.
July 28, 2010 started out as a very exciting day for me. Why, you ask? Because I am good at deadlines and my baby was coming that day. My hospital bag was packed. I had just finished reading “Ina Mae’s Guide to Natural Childbirth” (along with the other 30-some pregnancy books on my nightstand). Baby’s room was good-to-go. All of the onesies had been washed and organized according to size. I was ready.
Noah was not.
July 29, 2010 started out optimistically. I was still prepared but I began googling ways to naturally induce labor. I was still pleasant and exciting when people asked me about my impending family addition.
By July 30th, I was hot (95 degrees in North Carolina summer with 80% plus humidity every day almost killed me), grumpy, and aggravated that I was still pregnant. I had decided that the only thing that would get this baby out of me was to exercise. I went to the gym twice a day and ran 3-4 miles on the elliptical. I couldn’t do the treadmill anymore because my belly stuck out so far that it banged into the front of the machine. The worst part was watching all of the people’s faces as they cautiously tip-toed around me waiting on me to go into labor at any moment.
By the first few days of August, I had basically just accepted the fact that I was going to be pregnant forever. I started snapping at people when they would ask me questions. Even questions totally unrelated to my pregnancy got a hateful response. I was over it.
By August 5th, I had made a list of things people were not allowed to say to me (which basically meant that I stopped answering my phone all together). The list included:
1. Wow! You look like you’re about to pop! (You’ll think “pop” when I punch you in the face.)
2. So, how pregnant are you? (I am just as pregnant as I was 10 minutes ago, ass!)
3. I can’t believe they let you go this long. (It is none of “their” business just like it is none of yours!)
4. I would’ve just scheduled the C-section already. (Really?!?)
5. You better sleep now while you can. (Yeah, it’s really easy to sleep when you have a giant belly, raging hormones, you pee every 13 minutes.)
6. He’ll come when he’s ready. (This just made me angry- no elaboration needed.)
August 6th, my mother-in-law felt really bad for me so she came to town and took me and Matt out to lunch (although I couldn’t eat because there was no more room inside my body because it was full of baby and amniotic fluid). We went on an adventure to Replacements Limited (where a random lady asked me, “So, when’s your due date?” to which I replied (in a voice that probably sounded a little like Satan), “It was 2 weeks ago. Thanks for asking”). It was, however, a nice change of pace.
On August 8th, I went in for an ultrasound and a good cry with my midwife. She assured me that I was still on track and she did a few “midwifery” tricks to help kick start my labor. I woke up at 4am with contractions 2 minutes apart and Noah was born 5 hours later on August 9th.
So, today, on July 28th, I do not celebrate what was assigned to him as his “due date.”
I choose to celebrate:
1. Appreciation and patience- as the best things are truly worth waiting for,
2. Perseverance and Strength- as it would have been so much easier to just give in,
3. Understanding- as I think my husband seriously thought about divorce at least twice, and