Today I am 38 weeks pregnant. Frankie came at 39 weeks. Molly came at 38 weeks. That means this baby is overdue. That's just plain Logic 101, people. Wheaton College taught me that.
Truthfully, as uncomfortable as I am, I am getting more nervous about labor and thinking perhaps in is better than out. It was that kind of thinking that kept my nephew Jude in ten days past his due date. My sister was very happy to keep him ensconced in the womb and not wreaking havoc out and about on terra firma. And maybe she was on to something. I keep thinking that my sleeping could not possibly be worse with a newborn than it is right now, but then my mind flashes back to Frankie, sleeping 4 out of 24 hours, and those only directly on our chests, and I wonder.
I'm also experiencing intense jealousy on my behalf of my daughters. I watched them run ahead of me on a walk yesterday afternoon, two tiny heads bobbing up and down clutching stuffed animals, and I wanted to weep with the fullness of gratitude I felt. Surely my heart can't accomodate a third, I thought, but remembered how hard I cried when my water broke with Molly, positive that I would never love another daughter like I loved Frankie. And how I cried the next day because I thought I loved Molly more.
Waiting for labor is an exercise in patience that I don't naturally possess. Every evening, the contractions come and I keep the phone near me, ready to call my parents into action. And every evening, I'm left alone as they peter out, like a tired guest hiding behind the curtains at a surprise party shouting "SU....oh" as the cat or the mailman shows up at the door instead.
Come on, baby sister, you're overdue.