I have reached that point of mental exhaustion. Maybe physical too, but mostly mental. And it’s sure not because our tiny lady is attempting to make her appearance. It’s because she’s simply not. I feel like she might stay forever. And we are only 3 days post her due date.
This is awful. It’s awful because I really should be pleased. When she does come, she will be very healthy and happy. She will be the best physically prepared that she could be to embark on her life journey as an infant. All systems will be fired up and raring to go. Fat and happy and all that jazz. And there have been so very many tiny people who have made their arrival too early. They aren’t as fortunate as her and some have had horrible, with the worst complications. So it’s heinous of me to even want to complain, to want to tap out.
But then I saw the pitting edema at my ankles. What? Pitting. Edema. And she has begun to inhabit my upper rib cage so all types of bras are uncomfortable due to pressure. Which is unfortunate because there is, well, a fair amount of leaking. And I can’t control it because there is no comfortable bra to place a nursing pad in. Socks and shoes are a struggle to put on. And I have this intense obsession to shave my legs even though I am having a hard time getting clothes on.
Yet we wait. And wait. And. Wait. Our next appt is Monday, during which time we should have an induction date set towards the end of next week. I am super opposed to being induced mostly because your body simply doesn’t have time to appropriately respond to the subsequent labor. I read somewhere that our bodies gear up for labor like the preparation of instruments for a symphony. There is a careful orchestration of hormones, of action and reaction, which prepares our bodies and our babies for birth. So, unless medically necessary, I do want to avoid that induction. Desperately.
So, tiny baby girl, we are ready. So much so. Just give a holler when you are. Cause we would really like to spend Christmas with our beautiful blessing.