Waiting

You'd think I'd know better by now. I do know better--I've resisted all attempts to move the due date closer; when the doctor says, "Could happen any time," I plug my ears and hum "Battle Hymn of the Republic;" when friends tell me they think I'll go early, I change the subject to how they think the Padres will fare this year. Psychologically, I know it is best for me to think that that baby will come two weeks after the due date. And yet, when the pre-contraction contractions kick in, I am the one getting prematurely excited. I think, "Well, maybe," and then just end up grumpily resetting all my psychological defenses.

Meanwhile, life plugs along without worrying about baby's timetable. The 17-year-old pulls an almost all-nighter for a gigantic AP project, waking me up at four, curse him, to tell me his plan. The fifteen-year-old falls dead asleep on the couch for five hours in the afternoon because he is growing like a weed and needs his beauty rest. The thirteen-year-old wrestles at school, bikes home, eats several pounds of food, and dashes off to rugby practice. The ten-year-old makes earrings, since she has no homework, then goes off to basketball, which is only an acceptable way to pass her time if one of her friends is there. The nine-year old and five-year-old, also known as flint and steel, play together happily, much to mother's surprise and delight, before starting their homework.

At least waiting for baby does have a predetermined end, unlike many things we wait for and chew our nails over in life. In two weeks, one way or another, I will be able to tie my own shoes again, walk without a waddle, and switch to my other side in bed without a three point turn.