Holding Pattern

Today is D-Day. The day Gertie is supposed to come screaming into this world. All those friends and strangers who assured me that I would deliver early - based on the sheer size of The Belly - are now rushing to assure me that she will eventually arrive.

Our bags are packed. The baby's room is decorated. Tiny pink onesies are laundered and folded neatly in a drawer. The car seat is in the car. Batteries are loaded in the baby monitor and swing, and my pump is sitting on a shelf, ready for duty. We've made a total of three trips to the hospital and can now find our way from the ER to Labor and Delivery without the aid of a nurse.

Joseph wakes up every morning and asks if "little sister" is ready to come out yet. When I make a quick trip to the store without him, he worries that I'm leaving for the "hop-pital". Chad changed the ring tones on all three of his phones to the most annoying sound possible - to avoid missing any calls.

Every time I feel a contraction, I wonder if this is it. Every time they subside, Chad puts away his watch and says, "Next time."

I'm taking naps and trying to get to bed early. I'm sleeping late and letting my body rest. My back aches and my stomach looks as tight as an overly ripe tomato. The skin is stretched and shiny and, even though I know from experience it won't, I worry that it will be this size forever.

The house is clean - from the waist up. I can't get low enough to clean baseboards or floors. Chad is doing an amazing job keeping things picked up, but he cleans man-style, which means he doesn't notice crumbs and spills.

We're in a holding pattern. We know we'll be the proud parents of a little girl by this time next week. The rest is just a waiting game. A game that will end. Apparently in overtime.