As of today there are only 100 days left until my “due date.” Dipping under 100 days makes my heart race a bit as it makes me realize how quickly things are going to change. Am I ready for the return to sleepless nights? Am I up to the challenge of taking care of two kids? What if I can’t find anyone to watch Cooper when I go into labor? Are any of my maternity clothes even going to fit if I really have that many more days to go? Then there’s something that makes my heart beat even quicker: the 100 days is only based on one of my due dates. So far we’ve had three: March 17th, March 10th, and March 3rd (which is a three week span for those, like me, that must consult calendars to figure these sort of things out). I’d heard of people having two due dates (Haven’t known anyone yet with three, any of you had this happen?), but always figured it was for people that couldn’t remember when they last had a period and not for OCD trackers such as myself. Guess I was wrong.
Right now we’re working off the middle due date, but the three potentials make this whole unpredictable experience even that much more befuddling. I realize the whole thing is just very scientific guesswork, but I always kind of liked having a “target date” to work with. Cooper himself (who only ever had one solid due date) came a day past 36 weeks. (All of his own accord and was completely normal and healthy for those whose hearts just skipped a beat.) My doctor tells me I statistically have a 30% chance of delivering earlier than that this time around and while I’m a firm believer that babies generally come when they’re supposed too, I’m still using all my powers to will this baby into not coming until at least 37 weeks. I’d just prefer not to put the well-meaning hospital staff into an unnecessary panic this time around. But what exactly would 37 weeks even be? February 11, 18, or 25? Hmm. As if pregnancy alone didn’t already have the power to take emotionally stable people and render them certifiably insane, now my doctor is playing mind games with me. Is anyone else’s brain spinning with all the numbers?
I know it sounds like I’m freaking out, and well, I guess I am, but at the same time I’m fully aware that whatever is supposed to happen will happen and there’s really not a whole lot I can do about it. Earlier or later, the baby will come. She’ll be beautiful and we’ll figure out what it means to be four instead of three without (hardly) ever looking back. Now if only I could figure out how to permanently setup camp in the part of my brain that generates those thoughts. In the meantime, I have somewhere between 74 to 107 days left of this belly madness (Or more. Or less. But who’s counting?) and you better believe my hospital bag is going to be packed early. Basically, I plan on spending the entire month of February not expecting to go into labor, but being prepared if it happens. Now will someone please destroy all my calendars so my over-planning-brain won’t be able to mull over the endless possibilities anymore?