I won’t technically hit 40 weeks until Thanksgiving day—my official due date. I’d like to say that I’m posting this early just in case she comes a little early and I wouldn’t otherwise have the chance, but it turns out that the final “official” week of pregnancy before the due date comes around can make a bit of a head case out of a new mom to be, and I’m starting to convince myself that she’ll hold out for another few weeks. I’m trying to tell myself that I’m okay with this, but as more people check in to see how I’m feeling and to find out whether anything has happened, I can’t help but feel just a little twinge of disappointment (I can’t imagine how Kate Middleton felt with the whole world watching and waiting—talk about pressure).
I can’t complain about pregnancy itself. Besides the humbling fact that I now prefer assistance to put my shoes on (if it wasn’t 25 degrees outside, slip on shoes would be my best friend these days), I’m generally feeling good. Really good (Maybe too good? I feel like there should be signs that labor is on its way, like feeling terribly uncomfortable or something).
At this point, the anticipation is getting to me more than anything. Now, I enjoy a little adventure, and I’ve gotten so much more comfortable with the unknown over the past four years from running my own businesses and making the crazy split second decision to move to DC for eight months, but even in those cases, I’ve always had some sense of control.
In this case, I have absolutely no control for the first time in my adult life. The preparation is done—as “done” as it can be. Jeff and I took a 12 week class that taught us about nutrition and exercise and how to have a natural birth (and how to set expectations in case things don’t go as hoped). Her room is ready for her. We’ve read (or at least scanned) the books. We’re ready to meet her.
But for now, we wait.