So, they tell you that it's common to run 8-10 days over. Or, Heaven forbid, as much as three weeks.
But no, I didn't think it was going to happen to me. Not me. I like to arrive on time; they gave me a due date of December 28th, darn it all, and I have full intentions of sticking to it. I LIKE my due date: it's got an 8 in it, falls right between Christmas and New Year's, and nets that all-important tax deduction.
However, seeing as it's past seven and I've nary a contraction, no water has broken, and I spent the day making curtains, cleaning house, walking dogs, and generally feeling pretty much FINE,
apparently this child of mine has other ideas.
I'm now making plans for the coming week out of self-defense. Because the thought of sitting around the house waiting to go into labor is no longer as deliciously sweet after a full week of vacation. NPR's back on, K's down at the building, and I've got big plans for novel revisions tomorrow. Because my life is FULL, baby girl; stand me up all you like and see if I care.
Bona Fide farm / April Part II
1 day ago