Twiddle, twiddle, do, re, mi
With thumbs a-twiddle, I'm passing the time, whistling tunelessly, waiting for this too-boring-for-TLC baby-delivery show to get on the road. After the serious talking-to I got a few weeks ago at the OB's office, warning that he would almost certainly be showing up early, he is now officially tardy. There was one brief scare last week--I lost five weeks of fundal height in six days, necessitating a rushed ultrasound at the hospital, which proved entirely reassuring--but other than that there's been no excitement at all. Nada. Zip.
My parrot, Archimedes, is doing a perfect imitation of my aimless, random whistling, except that she has better pitch and volume. I am mildly jealous.
I'm 2 cm dilated, 50% effaced and having the occasional unproductive contraction. Sleep deprived only from the need to urinate five or seven or nine times per night and finding it difficult to squirm into any position that approximates comfort. I am, as best I can manage, ready: I want him out where I can see him, where I can touch him and where he isn't spooning so affectionately with my bladder.
I realize I will be hitting myself over the head with a cartoon-style skillet once I find myself in the agony of labor, and afterwards, when I haven't slept for a fortnight. But, patience and prudence be damned, I am READY.