For the first time since the make-sure-he-is-still-there ultrasound in what seems like a previous lifetime, my stomach was churning on the drive to the doctor’s office this morning.
Even though our last visit just nine days ago yielded little or no progress toward Baby O’Clock, there was this strange feeling in my gut as it dawned on me that the doctor very well could examine Megan and transform from her usual cool-as-the-other-side-of-the-pillow self into some frantic TV stereotype.
I imagined her eyes going wide as she announced, “You’re at 4 centimeters! We need to get you to the hospital!” Suddenly the world would be spinning around us as Megan broke into massive contractions with no warning, and the next thing you know we’re sitting in the back seat of the Outlander as traffic whizzes past us on DeRenne while I try to deliver the baby.
Oh, hey, there’s a stop sign. Snap out of it.
Naturally, it wasn’t that dramatic, or else I wouldn’t be writing this post … I would be passed out in a pool of my own sweat and urine, or worse.
But there is progress to report. No dilation to speak of, but she went from 0 to 70 percent effacement since our last visit, a firm indication that my nightly pep talks asking the little fella to think about coming out of there might be getting through.
(By the way, neither of our “anxious grandmas” posted this question, as far as I know, but it is a good explanation of what today’s update means.)
The plan is to go back to the doctor Tuesday — our due date — and get a progress report, assuming there’s no baby by then. And we’ll take it from there.
So if you’re planning on being here for the birth ritual, now would be a good time to make sure you have a bag packed and pop this joint into your GPS.
It’s almost go-time.