The Waiting Game
It is a strange thing to be simultaneously wishing I'd go into labor already and hoping for a week or so more to savor my quiet, self-absorbed, childless existence.
Each day the twins hold off on making their debut represents a couple more pages of my novel draft, a few more hours of sleep, a chapter or two more of the books I'm reading (The Third Chimpanzee by Jared Diamond and The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri). At the same time, it also means another day of annoying aches and pains, heartburn and fatigue, and, well, not getting to hold my fabulous baby girls in my arms.
There are several things that have been going on which suggest that labor is imminent: more dull lower back pain and menstrual-like cramps in the evenings and mornings, loose and frequent bowel movements (TMI? Oh well), increasing downward pressure in my pelvis/groin, and the fact that I seem to have stopped gaining weight. (Total net gain: 42 pounds.)
And there was the fact that this morning after breakfast--until A. ordered me to stop--I started cleaning the outside of the kitchen cabinets and dusting the baseboards in the living room because suddenly the house seemed irredeemably filthy to me. But I have these little microbursts of cleaning energy fairly regularly, so I'm not sure I'd call this the telltale nesting urge.
At the same time, there's plenty to suggest that labor is still a ways off. The babies are still quite active, I've had no unusual...er...secretions down below, and my pseudo-contractions are still fairly infrequent. Part of me thinks (fears?) that this pregnancy is just going to go on ad infinitum. My body and its passengers have behaved so well this whole time, with no complications or problems or discomforts beyond the expected, that it wouldn't really surprise me if I made it to 38 weeks -- the point at which my doctor would be willing to induce me if I wanted.
So, I wait. I write. I blog. I wear the comfiest clothes I can fit into, and don't leave the house much. I do a little yoga. I admire the consummate tackiness of the Christmas lights and plastic figurines decking the porch and garden of grumpy old Tony across the street. I stare wistfully at our bookshelves and wine rack and grieve the lifestyle I'm about to lose, then go into the nursery and stare wistfully at the cribs and the little clothes in the closet and can't wait for all that I'm about to gain.
And I nap. Oh, how I nap. Pardon me while I go do some of that right now...
Each day the twins hold off on making their debut represents a couple more pages of my novel draft, a few more hours of sleep, a chapter or two more of the books I'm reading (The Third Chimpanzee by Jared Diamond and The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri). At the same time, it also means another day of annoying aches and pains, heartburn and fatigue, and, well, not getting to hold my fabulous baby girls in my arms.
There are several things that have been going on which suggest that labor is imminent: more dull lower back pain and menstrual-like cramps in the evenings and mornings, loose and frequent bowel movements (TMI? Oh well), increasing downward pressure in my pelvis/groin, and the fact that I seem to have stopped gaining weight. (Total net gain: 42 pounds.)
And there was the fact that this morning after breakfast--until A. ordered me to stop--I started cleaning the outside of the kitchen cabinets and dusting the baseboards in the living room because suddenly the house seemed irredeemably filthy to me. But I have these little microbursts of cleaning energy fairly regularly, so I'm not sure I'd call this the telltale nesting urge.
At the same time, there's plenty to suggest that labor is still a ways off. The babies are still quite active, I've had no unusual...er...secretions down below, and my pseudo-contractions are still fairly infrequent. Part of me thinks (fears?) that this pregnancy is just going to go on ad infinitum. My body and its passengers have behaved so well this whole time, with no complications or problems or discomforts beyond the expected, that it wouldn't really surprise me if I made it to 38 weeks -- the point at which my doctor would be willing to induce me if I wanted.
So, I wait. I write. I blog. I wear the comfiest clothes I can fit into, and don't leave the house much. I do a little yoga. I admire the consummate tackiness of the Christmas lights and plastic figurines decking the porch and garden of grumpy old Tony across the street. I stare wistfully at our bookshelves and wine rack and grieve the lifestyle I'm about to lose, then go into the nursery and stare wistfully at the cribs and the little clothes in the closet and can't wait for all that I'm about to gain.
And I nap. Oh, how I nap. Pardon me while I go do some of that right now...
posted by Jane at 12:15 PM
5 Comments:
You're going to do so well. I can't wait to meet them either.
What a beautiful and accurate post.
You are totally nesting. I was just talking to a coworker about nesting before we went into labor, and she said she had never thought to clean a baseboard in her life, until she was about to give birth.
I'm still holding out for tomorrow! I'd say the not leaving the house is nesting. I never wanted to leave my house for the last few weeks. Wait, I still don't want to leave my house!
Hello, Jane?
Sorry, T-Bone....no signs of labor yet. But there are a good few hours left in the day!
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