Not that I expected anything during my pregnancy to go according to plan, but I was particularly disappointed when my supposed due date came and went and I didn’t go into labor. I realize that there’s a lot of variables at work here, and that, at best, it’s just an estimate.
Still, having a light at the end of the tunnel, knowing that someday soon I’ll hold my son in my arms and be able to present him to his father for the first time was getting me through the yuckier feelings I’ve been battling with lately. Having that event delayed was hard to take.
As the days progress, he feels bigger and bigger in my stomach. The kicks are harder, his grinding against my rib cage more prolonged. I’m certain he’s just as restless as I am. It’s hard not to take it personally.
I begin to wonder if I’m doing something wrong. And, as the days progress and I haven’t delivered, the old wives tales are being offered up even more readily than before. At different points, I’m told take the elevator and the stairs. I’m advised to eat spicy foods, drink wine, take hot baths, and jump up and down.
My doctor said that they “used to” advise women to consume castor oil and root beer to induce pregnancy, but the web searches I’ve found have been mixed. I’m concerned that in my enlarged state that I might not be able to make it to the bathroom in time if I have to go, so that would create a whole other problem.
I’m hesitant to do anything to rush the little guy. I don’t want to make things more complicated down the road, and make more trouble for us. I’m seeing the doctor tonight, and we’ll discuss induction, if that’s what needs to be done. However, enduring the ramped up barrage of “oh, you’re still here” and “you haven’t delivered yet?!” will be most unpleasant.