Practicing The Art Of Patience

When I was pregnant with the boys I knew at about 30 weeks when I was going to be induced. I had a date set in my mind and I was working on keeping those kiddies in there for as long as possible, terrified at the prospect of them coming too early.

Now, I'm nearly 38 weeks pregnant, pretty much the same number of weeks as when I went into the hospital to have the boys. So in my head, I'm ready to go. To my mind, this is when a person should stop being pregnant and start being a mummy. My body and my baby seem to have other ideas though. With two weeks left until my official due date, I'm not really showing too many signs of imminent labour. Or at least I don't think I am. Since I was induced before, I have no real idea of what those pre-labour pains are like, or how quickly things might progess. I was just shoved full of pitocen and away we went. So I now spend my days wondering if every little twinge, every slight cramp could be it. "Ohp," I mutter to myself as I place a hand on my lower belly, "is this it?" Nope. It never is.

Everyone tells me I'll definitely know, so I should just chill out and get on with life, but its so hard to concentrate on anything else. My whole being is waiting for it. I'm straining to keep a lid on my impatience, but it keeps popping out, frustrated and grumpy. "Just hurry up already!" my mind is yelling. "I want to hold her NOW!" Of course, I'm a little fed up with my body too. I'm not as big as I was with the twins, but when you have to lug yourself out of bed in the middle of the night to go to the washroom yet again, it doesn't matter if its one or two babies in there. At this stage, I'm big and cumbersome and almost need a push from Mark to make it out from under the covers. Throughout the day I notice I waddle when I walk, I grunt when I put my boots on, I sigh when I sit down on the couch. I'm most definitely at the beached whale stage of things and it doesn't help my mood, let me tell you.

Of course, the poor unfortunates who are most affected by the moody, impatient behemoth are Owen and William. I'm sure they're wondering what on earth has become of their mother and who this large, grumpy replacement is. I snap at them constantly and argue with them over the smallest things. This morning, William was upset when I forgot to say "On your marks, get set, go" as I pulled out of the driveway, something that has become a little ritual as we leave for school in the mornings. And instead of stopping the car on our quiet street and saying those six simple words, I turned it into a "lesson" telling him that sometimes we don't get everything we want and mummy can't do everything, etc etc etc and told him to cut it out when he cried. Yes, I am indeed aiming for a nomination for World's Meanest Mother. Maybe that's why the baby hasn't emerged yet. She's listening and has decided she doesn't like what she hears.

So I'm trying really hard to be better, to take deep breaths and remember that its just hormones, its just pregnancy, its just a few short days away. I try to keep calm when little people jump on the couch or ignore requests to put the scissors DOWN RIGHT NOW, and be grateful that they've been napping steadily for about a month, letting me get some much needed rest every afternoon. I remember to enjoy the quiet moments we do have together, the cuddles and kisses, their excitement at the imminent arrival of a baby sister, the wonderful questions and suggestions ("When Baby comes, I gonna show her cows and horses. I gonna hold her so she can see dem", "Maybe when Baby comes we can go to da cottage and she can play in da yake wid us. I gonna hep her swim!") and their gentleness with our friends' little ones. All in all, this is a magical time, something I'll probably never experience again (I say probably because I'm aware that accidents happen and I don't want to jinx myself) and I should just go with the flow.

But could the flow hurry it up already?! Jeez.