I am sitting here at my desk, doing hip circles on my birth
ball. Although I’m not feeling
particularly inspired to write, it’s probably the one thing I haven’t tried yet
to induce labor (a sort of emotional release, if you will). Things I have tried include all the obvious, acupuncture and induction massage, mowing the
lawn on our tractor, lots of crying, and Spinning Babies techniques. The logical part of me knows there’s probably
nothing I can do to make him or her come.
But part of me feels broken.
Having gone 13 days past my due date last time hasn’t made
this time much easier. My body or my
babies need more time to gestate; someone has to be at the bottom of the bell
curve at 42 weeks. It’s not
abnormal. So why is it so hard?
I have a few theories for me. The first is that I was hopeful that baby
just might come early! Not too hopeful, but hopeful enough that I
ordered my home birth kit on time and started assembling supplies at 38
weeks. I installed the car seat a couple
of weeks ago. And I’ve been slowly
checking things off my list… But most were checked off by 39 weeks.
That was over two weeks ago.
So what have I been doing?
Waiting. At home. I’ve been feeling very vulnerable and
anti-social, so the idea of visiting friends hasn’t sounded appealing, so we’ve
mostly stayed home. But what happens at
home? I feel like I need to have the
house ready to go, so we spend a lot of time cleaning- and that’s driving me
crazy. I haven’t felt like reading or
otherwise engaging in anything too crafty (I did recover the cushions on the
glider and finish crocheting baby’s blanket though). So I’m just in this perpetual state of
waiting.
I’ve done it to myself, I realize, since I don’t want to go
out. But, my main problem with going out
right now is the endless commentary from strangers on me and my family. It sounds horrible but frankly I don’t want
to hear anything from anyone about my pregnancy or my family- even compliments. I just want to talk about normal things. Everyone stares at me with giant eyes,
comments on my basketball belly, asks how many kids I have and stares at me
even more when I tell them this is my fifth.
Or, if the kids are with me, they’ll count them up and ask if this baby
is a boy or girl, then I have to explain I don’t know because we chose not to
find out, then they say, “Oh I could never do that!” and we laugh cordially. I’ve had that exact conversation 100
times. While I am very thankful that I
haven’t received any rude comments (apparently those have been reserved for
Ryan), I am just tired of the small talk.
Spiritually I feel very dry, because I haven’t been able to
engage in any stimulating conversations due to my self-inflicted confinement,
and I haven’t been able to force myself to read anything spiritual. Or anything at all, really. I feel like my brain doesn’t have the
capacity to think or feel right now.
I’m in a tunnel. It’s
pitch black and I can’t see the light. I
know the light is ahead because, well, no one is pregnant forever, right? Right now I feel like I’ve been in this
tunnel for a lifetime, and this particular tunnel has been more challenging to
navigate than the other four I’ve already been through. This tunnel held apathy, depression,
vulnerability, and feelings of abandonment.
When I finally had to give up the one thing at 32 weeks that made me
feel like ME (which was working out and lifting weights), my body actually
started to feel better physically,
which frustrated me that I couldn’t even do the one thing anymore that made me
feel normal.
I’m happy with our decision to labor and deliver at home,
but I’m not looking forward to having to actually labor again. Having been through it several times already,
and having witnessed nearly 50 births as a doula, I am very aware of what I’m
about to go through. I made a (probably
heretical) comparison to feeling like Jesus in the garden before His
passion. He knew what was going to
happen to Him; He didn’t want to do it.
He sweat blood! I haven’t sweat
blood before but I know pretty well what to expect. The tightening, the stretching, the pain that
my body will endure. It’s the only way
to bring this baby into my arms, and I wholly accept that this is the way it
has to happen. And we’ve chosen to do it
at home (under the care of a midwife) because I don’t feel there are any better
options for me. Jesus knew His Father’s
will, yet He still asked for another way.
I don’t feel guilty about asking for the beginning of the end of this
pregnancy… I just have to remember His words: “Not my will, but your will be
done.”
I see the opportunities for grace, for growing in patience
and endurance, for humility, for redemptive suffering. I see
that perhaps God has a great plan that I don’t know about yet, or a plan better
than the one I’ve made. But… I just don’t
want to do it anymore. I’m ready to have
this baby, ready to accept and embrace the pains of labor, ready to move on
with life. Yet I must wait.
And so… we wait.
