The End Is Near

by Cookie

This weekend was crazy busy.  I wish it had been crazy busy having a baby, but apparently, Little Buddy has set up shop and is hell bent on torturing me forever.   Bestie says that the last few weeks suck and are really uncomfortable to help you look forward to labour.  To make that seem not so bad.

The truth is, I am kinda looking forward to it.  The birth of my twee Destroyer was insane and fast and confusing, but it was also the most empowering, beautiful moment of my life ever. Seriously ever.  I relived it over and over again in my mind, because I just couldn’t believe what her and I had done together.  And actually, she had done most of the work for me.  By the time I started pushing, she was almost out anyway.

Then my doctor threw me for a loop about a month ago when she told me she had to go for surgery herself and likely would not see me again until after Little Buddy’s birth.  She has been my doctor since I was 17, and I felt totally devastated.  Now a stranger is going to deliver my baby for me?  Now I won’t have this awesome,plucky, legend of a woman in the delivery room with me?  Someone who knows me and supports my choice of the most natural birth ever.

So naturally I did what I do best at this point of pregnancy.  I freaked out.   At this point of gestation, a freak out is a phenomenon that is always just beneath the surface.  Any little thing is able to trigger it, and feeling like you have no care provider is a really good way to test this theory.

Anyway, I have a fabulous doula and friend that manages to calm the crazy in me.  Not sure how, because I am not easily quelled.  But you know what?  This is what I have to remember:

No one is going to deliver my baby for me.  I am going to deliver my baby.  I am going to allow my body to do what it knows how to do.   And someone will catch him for me.  End of story.

And if something goes wrong, there will be support for that, and it won’t be about what I want at that point, it will be about what’s best for Buddy.

But nothing is going to go wrong.  Him and I are going to get this done, one way or another, preferably sooner rather than later.  And then I am going to have a glass of wine and a sandwich and realize that all my worrying and complaining was so stupid.

And until he gets here, I am going to go find a trampoline to jump on and drink some uterus tea.  I will get Husband to donate some prostglandins and maybe go for a jog.  And for supper, we’re having tobasco sauce with chili peppers.

Bring it on.  No matter who’s at the other end, I’m ready.