Eight days to go, that’s what we were telling ourselves. That’s what the calendar said and the midwife said and the doctor said. Our little lady though, she decided that the last days were going to go differently. We had a question around her reduced movement this morning, for which we went to the hospital for a check. Which is always okay to do, and you’ll never be made to feel bad for doing. They then recommended a scan, which was largely, mostly okay. But between all the points of mild concern, and the fact that we were almost at 39 weeks, the recommendation came down: Is it time to induce?
To be fair it was a question, a recommendation, but nothing was forced. But the signs were there, the bag was packed, it was time. It meant that I’ve been robbed of my movie trope: There has been no dramatic breaking of waters, apparently instantly leading to contractions, followed by a hilarious drive to the hospital and a dramatic entry into the maternity ward. Instead it was all calm, we were already there, and now it’s just waiting. Waiting to see if the different stages of induction take, and in what timeframe. It’s now a question of either hours or days.
Sadly until my partner enters labour, I can’t stay overnight. I have to go home and fret and text people. I have to not worry too much, and prepare the house and the dog and myself for what could be coming at any moment.
The phone’s on loud, and I’m poised and ready. I doubt I’ll sleep much tonight. Our baby is due to arrive any hour or day now. And I can’t wait.