And no, I’m not talking about collegiate semesters here (although I’m sure there’s a lesson to be learned there, too). I’m talking about the ninth month, the final sprint, the end-is-in-sight part of pregnancy.
For me, more than during the other parts of pregnancy, I am reminded of just how little control I have over things. True, there are inductions that could be scheduled, which would lend a certain amount of control (or at least the illusion of control), but as a frum Jew, I can’t schedule an induction purely for convenience, but only for medical necessity. So I could forget about making it easier for my mother and mother-in-law to book their flights.
So here I am, waiting.
Waiting for Baby Silver #2 to make his or her entrance. And there is little I can really do to determine exactly when that will be. Sure, there are all sorts of tips and tricks which I tried last time, when I was expecting Little Man. However, I don’t think any of them really worked (I think I tried everything except drinking Castor Oil – ewwwww). This time around, I’m taking a more laid back approach. The baby will come when the baby will come. I am zen mommy. Ohmmmmm.
Tomorrow is my due date. This date, which seems like pure conjecture, I might add, is only around in order to frustrate mommies who gestate just a little longer than ACOG’s calculations. That is my opinion. Little Man decided that he wanted to be born six days past his due date. Six days. Even though I knew that my due date was merely an estimation, it was still very disappointing to see that day come and go. And then the next day. And then the next day.
Being in the third trimester is a study in time relativity.
Really, it’s just a reminder that I am not in control. Not even a little. Sure, I can make decisions like “I want the brown Pack’n’play instead of the blue one,” or “I think I’ll buy the yellow sheet for the crib.” But really, aside from that, I got nothin’. I will wait for labor to start, and then things will proceed as they do.
In the mornings, when I say the morning brachos, I’ve had increased concentration on “matir asurim.” This means, according to my Artscroll siddur, “Who releases the bound.” I keep thinking, “Well, this baby sure is bound up in my tummy. Maybe G-d will decide that today is the day to release this baby.”
Until then, I’m going to continue cleaning my apartment, baking cookies, freezing food, playing with Little Man and enjoying this relative calm before the flurry of activity and sleep deprivation which lies ahead (G-d willing), and use this as an opportunity to keep things in perspective. I’m not the one running the show. Which is probably a good thing. Okay, definitely a good thing.