It is now day 10 of the labour strike, but it is unclear who is on strike - the baby or I? Scientists don't fully understand which party initiates labour, who 'gets this party started' as it were. In sheep, where thankfully extensive research has been done, it is the fetus who makes the exit strategy. But my baby is no sheep, and here we are, on day 10 of our stand-off. Silly me for assuming that 41+ weeks of gestation entitled me to a baby, that contractions were part of the contract.
Further attempts at deploying a peaceful withdrawal strategy have included evening primrose oil, more acupuncture, spicy food in every form, meditation, recipes incorporating eggplant and pineapples (eww, not together!), homeopathic remedies and walking every mall and street in Toronto. I've also made tons of dates and appointments I couldn't possibly keep, in the hopes of tempting fate. Instead, I've brunched and lunched, visited the salon and watched long movies, and started, completed and eated 8-hour-crockpot recipes.
A good friend likes to tell me that this is my first lesson in parenthood, that things don't go according to plan. Got it. Lesson learned. Let's move on now, shall we? Surely there are other lessons awaiting me, like how to put on a diaper, or uh, how to raise a child.
There is a lot of talk about induction lately, and January 20th holds much promise. As I watched Barack Obama's induction into office as President of the United States, I thought a lot about my own induction ceremonies, though unlike Obama, mine may include castor oil. These are desperate times, people. It certainly is an auspicious time for a new arrival though, a good day to mark the end of one, full term, and start another, yes?
Yes we can, baby... yes we can.