{40w3d}

I thought I was peeing myself.

Today felt different, but not different enough to make a fuss. My husband found a four leaf clover and brought it to me while we were at work, and we laughed about it possibly being a sign. I made sure I printed out my call list so that my husband, mother, and sister knew who to contact in the event that God would allow us to go into labor on our own, but still worried that I'd have to be induced next week.

Then, after coming home from work, I decided against shopping for last minute things and opted instead to head home and take a nap.

I wasn't asleep for very long before I was woke up by a noise from outside, and as I rolled over to get more comfortable, I felt like I had just involuntarily leaked a little urine.

Nice.

So I got up to go to the bathroom and found my pantyliner fairly soaked, but there was no blood, cramping, or contractions, so I decided to try and finish my nap.

But just as I got settled into position, it happened again.

Another quick bathroom check revealed the same findings, so I decided my nap time wasn't going to happen. And as I headed into the kitchen to find something to eat, I felt it again.

This couldn't be my water breaking; I wasn't feeling contractions, I had no blood, I hadn't lost my mucous plug and there just wasn't that obvious gush they talk about in birthing class. But just to be safe, I texted one of my connections in the labor and delivery land and was strongly advised to head in and get checked, just in case.

I debated for a good fifteen minutes whether or not I should go in. I didn't want to be the girl that cried wolf, especially not the girl that cried wolf because she couldn't control her bladder. But my group B strep diagnosis was heavy on my heart and I knew that if I was indeed leaking amniotic fluid, I'd never forgive myself if I ignored it out of fear of rejection and my baby suffered because of it.

So a quick call to my husband, a re-application of makeup and fifteen minutes later, we were headed to the hospital with our bag in the backseat, just in case. I made sure my husband knew not to let anyone know where we were going, because I couldn't stand the embarrassment that would ensue when our family found out I was in the hospital after peeing myself.

Everything felt so surreal once we were admitted to labor and delivery, where they asked me to pee in a cup, drew my blood, and hooked me up to monitors. I still felt like I was going to be sent home at any minute, and even began apologizing profusely for peeing on the nurse as she checked my cervical position and dilation.

She smiled and said she wouldn't be needing my ferning slide to check for a rupture, because I hadn't just peed on her after all. In fact, after moving the baby's head up slightly, she had opened up the floodgates and I had just leaked a large amount of amniotic fluid all over her.

My water had broken earlier, but the baby's head was acting as a plug, explaining why I had no major gush of fluid before.

Suddenly, I realized I wasn't going back home. And now here I am, listening to the rush of my baby's heartbeat on the monitor while an IV administers the antibiotics for my group B strep, waiting for my husband to bring me a bagel for fuel.

I'm contracting every six to eight minutes, but nothing strong enough to feel, and I'm still only dilated to a two. In just a few minutes, I'll start to roam the halls and see if I can get something moving along before midnight, because that's when they'll begin pitocin to get this party started if I can't manage it on my own.

This is what I wanted, to go into labor on my own. This is what I prayed for, what I asked others to pray for. And now I'm here, in a hospital bed, less than twenty four hours away from meeting my little miracle, and it still doesn't feel real.

Soon, I'll start feeling contractions, and it will be time to find out if my tiny human is a boy or girl.

And we still haven't even finalized names.

I also never got that darn enema, didn't get to take a shower, and never found the perfect going home outfit; but I did paint my toenails, get a spray tan, my hair is colored and my makeup is on, so I suppose I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

It's time.

"Difficult times have helped me to understand better than before, how infinetly rich and beautiful life is in every way, and that so many things that one goes worrying about are of no importance whatsoever..."
-Isak Dinesen

{40w0d}

My ticker says that today is the day; my countdown has ended.

And while I have reached the set scientific date of my child's birth, it doesn't look like we will be meeting our tiny human on Will and Kate's wedding anniversary after all. In fact, at yesterday's doctors appointment, we learned that our little miracle is avoiding progress by working it's way backwards.

Smart kid; this world's pretty messed up, so it's probably safer in my womb anyway.

Back at thirty-six weeks, I was told I was one centimeter dilated, sixty-to-seventy percent effaced, and baby was sitting at a negative three station. It was the perfect finding a month before my due date, and set me into my nesting frenzy. But then our next cervical check at thirty-eight weeks found us dilated one more centimeter-a generous two-fifty percent effaced, (yes, that's less effaced than the previous check) but baby had moved it's way down and engaged to a negative one station.

Two steps forward, one step back.

The doctor said that effacement-like everything else-is subjective at this point, and the position of the baby, the time of day, and a million other things can factor into why I seemed to be less effaced at that particular appointment, so I just rejoiced in the fact that baby had moved down and engaged, and let the rest go.

But at our thirty-nine week appointment, we were still two centimeters dilated, fifty percent effaced, and baby had moved it's way back up to a negative three station, where it remains today.

No steps forward, one more step back.

Again, the doctor just explained that these checks are at best subjective, and not to get discouraged because things are definitely moving along at this point.

It's a good thing I love being pregnant, or I may have lost my mind by now. I'm still setting in the minority of enjoying every second of carrying this child, though it's becoming difficult to paint my toenails, swelling has increased again and the weight gain is picking up suddenly after a long lull, but I still feel amazing.

My body is changing once again and I can feel the subtle differences, but I can't help but revel in the beauty of being a vessel to a new life. I've dreamed of this chapter in my life for years now, and knowing it could very well end at any moment makes me appreciate everything about this precious time I have to share with my child; time I will never get back.

Especially since my days are numbered.

I'm blessed to have a doctor who knows and respects how strongly I feel about having as natural a birth as possible, and he's willing to let me go up to a day short of forty-two weeks before giving our tiny human an eviction notice; but unless this child comes on his or her own before May 12th, they will be forced out.

After all this time and all infertility has robbed me of, I long for the experience of going into labor on my own, however painful and inconvenient it may be. There's nothing like choosing your child's birthday to suck the anticipation out of an infertiles dreams of having their first child, and it makes me sad to think that since this little one seems to be working it's way backwards into my womb instead of forwards, we may miss out on the excitement of the unknown birthday.

So my prayer is not only that this baby is and remains healthy, but that God allows the baby to come on it's own, and not on a doctors timeline. I so badly want to experience everything about this process, and I fully intend to avoid a planned trip to the hospital where I'd be hooked up to a pitocin drip to induce contractions while I'm strapped to a bed.

With that being said, however, I'm holding fast to the fact that this child is not my own. It always has and always will belong to God, and I have complete faith that nothing will happen throughout it's entire life without His complete approval, His perfect plan in place.

And even if that means my dreams of a natural, spontaneous, unplanned labor are shattered, I highly doubt my tiny humans arrival into this crazy world will be any less dramatic and perfect; especially since God's seems to like to go big or go home when it comes to His plans for our little family thus far.

So now, we wait.

Refusing to indulge in the old wives tales of controversial caster oil, painful nipple stimulation, greasy, spicy food and doing what got us here in the first place to the point of exhaustion-which, I remind those with this advise, for us is not the same method as it may have been for them-I'll instead continue to ignore the rising scale and pour my heart into daily cardio therapy, argue with my husband over the final name choices, and enjoy these last blessed moments as my own.

Because they are almost over.

And soon-within the limited realm of the next thirteen days-our prayers will have been answered on God's terms, and I will be holding a unmeasurable blessing in the form of a tiny miracle in my arms.

Ready or not.

"It's weird...you know the end of something great is coming, but you want to hold on, just for one more second..."
-Author Unknown

{38w6d}

So this is what it feels like to be a ticking time bomb.

My tiny human is set to make his or her debut into the world in eight days, and I'm not sure what to do with myself. I'm just getting used to the idea of being pregnant, I've finally felt my first real contraction and I'm pretty sure this baby has dropped even lower because I now feel like someone has punched me in the vagina.

I still wouldn't consider myself uncomfortable, but my body definitely knows something is up and the end is near.

Like eight days near.

What?

Thanks to the expertise of my mother and a quick trip to Target, he hospital bag is almost completely packed and my nesting frenzy has slowed to a lull. The nursery is almost finished, but I'm still waiting on that last piece of furniture to show up at the second hand store so I can snag it and add it to the room, and due to my own unusual procrastination earlier on it doesn't look like the bumper and crib skirt will be complete until after the baby arrives.

So my biggest decision at the moment lies at wether or not to take pictures of the nursery now, or wait until it's completely finished to share.

It's a big deal, I know.

Normally, I'd be hyperventilating at the lack of a completed nursery posted on my blog in pictures at this point, so I'm not sure what has come over me. Maybe I'm in denial that I really am almost done baking this little love, or I'm just finally learning to loosen up a little because my world is about to get turned upside down, and now is the time to learn to accept the inevitable.

I couldn't sleep last night, so I sat in the nursery instead. I looked around at the scenery and rocked back and forth in the plush chair that was my very first baby shower gift, soaking in the combination of minor and major details that had been stored in my head for the last four years, but had just recently found their way out to become a true part of my reality, via the form of my little one's nest.

And amidst the mindless rocking, I somehow managed to drift back to a day not so long ago when I got the call that my cousin was very close to delivering her second baby. I vividly remember the picture that formed in my head at that very moment, it was almost as if I was watching her in a movie; pacing back in forth in front of the baby's crib, holding her rounded stomach and gathering last minute items to take to the hospital.

I remember feeling a sudden pang of jealousy accompany my excitement for her as I realized that I may never get to experience that moment. We already had two failed IUI's and three failed IVF's looming overhead, and the possibility of a biological child seemed so very far away from my reality that it hurt to breathe.

And yet there I was last night-less than a year later-rocking in my very own nursery for my very own tiny human and holding my very own rounded stomach as I felt the life inside of me shift and reposition, staring blankly at my almost finished hospital bag and trying to soak it all in.

I sat in that chair for a good forty-five minutes and just rocked.

I tried desperately to picture a tiny miracle inside of my bumper-less crib, forcing an inclination of wether my newest love was a little man or sweet girl, but it just wasn't happening. I wondered if my low dresser and changing table combination was functional enough to work in the absence of the taller dresser I'm waiting on, and if the basket I chose for the books was large enough. I became angry again at the mailman for placing my newborn cloth diapers in the box with the key that's too rusted to open it-leaving me unable to receive my long awaited package-and considered the possibility that our crib sheet was the wrong shade of ecru.

I talked to God about showing me how to be the mother He wants me to be, patient, kind, full of unconditional love and wisdom to raise a child in this upside down world; and asked Him to keep me sane in labor, patient in the impending long nights, strong in faith and always grateful for this miracle.

And then I worried that I'd deliver a baby too large to even need newborn sized cloth diapers, pondered again which monitor I should purchase, realized frantically that we still haven't agreed on a boy name yet and wondered what in the world was making that ticking noise under the rocking chair.

Eventually, I was able to shut off my mind and settle my thoughts for the night. It's always a comfort to know that statistics show that first time Caucasian mothers tend to deliver past their due dates anyway, so I very well may have more time to complete my tasks than the calender really says.

But I'm still a ticking time bomb.

Unless I refuse the internal tomorrow, we'll see how much progression has been made-if any-and we'll be exactly one week from the date that's been permanently etched into my brain for the last eight months.

I know it's the wedding date of Prince William and Kate-because they just had to steal my thunder-but that's not why I remember it.

I remember it because it's the ending date that my heavily medicated and ferociously probed uterus was given for withholding our medical miracle. And while I completely understand that babies come on God's timeline-and not that of a doctor and his predictions-it's still a pretty good indication that my little one is done baking and will eventually come out.

And my life will change forever.

Even though I'm still having a difficult time comprehending the reality of what the next few weeks will hold, my forever infertile mind has finally just begun to accept the the excitement to come. I've waited for these moments for what feels like a lifetime, and I love the uncertainty of it all; the possibilities of how my tiny human will enter into this world are unique and only the Lord knows how all of the details will play out, and for once in my life, the suspense of the unknown actually thrills me.

Sooner than I realize, I will be looking into the eyes of my very own baby doll; and I have to believe that in that very moment, everything will make perfect sense.

But until then I'll just tick away, waiting for that new beginning.

"We are nearing the end of quite a fantastic voyage."
-Don Brownlee