. . . is that they are almost always wrong.
Not the kind you had in college for papers and projects, but baby ones.
And there's the rub. Nothing they taught me in college prepared me to wait for a baby. Nobody told me that after learning how to take charge of my destiny, make my own future, succeed and conquer, that I would then spend ten years learning over and over again that most things in life are out of my control. My job now is all about adapting, waiting, worrying, working toward something that is usually intangible, immeasurable, unpredictable, sometimes unattainable.
And that's harder.
Yesterday on October 12, this baby was due. Or so every one of the 7 or 8 ultrasounds said so (I lost track of how many—remember that I've been learning to focus less on measurable numbers and more on intangibles). But I knew that the baby was due October 22nd. I knew when my LMP was (January 15) and that the child could not easily have been conceived until January 23rd when we arrived in Panama and the romance and "trying" began anew.
Yet I believed the perinatologist, two sonographers, and the many images I took home with me with the due date of October 12 consistent.
But the day has come and gone, and October 22nd feels more like the day now. Can I trust that feeling? I also thought the baby was a girl and that I would have pre-term labor. Ha!
Already I have had 2 grandpas come and stay for awhile, watching me closely and making predictions that surely the baby will come tomorrow . . . or maybe tomorrow. And now I'm about to send 1 Nana Gurney off to Dallas on a train until further notice. I've received around 27 phone messages from people that all say the same thing: "Hi Mindy, are you in the hospital?" Last week I was dilated to a 2, effaced 80%, with the baby's head at +1.
But they are all numbers. And babies defy numbers. They start with due dates, then move on to feeding times, nap times, potty training timelines. Numbers tell me that one of my children is a more advanced reader than the other, but the one with lower numbers actually LOVES reading. Numbers tell me that one of my children is not growing and thriving, but I don't worry because I know he eats and feels happy almost all the time.
Numbers. Due dates. Hogwash.
Not the kind you had in college for papers and projects, but baby ones.
And there's the rub. Nothing they taught me in college prepared me to wait for a baby. Nobody told me that after learning how to take charge of my destiny, make my own future, succeed and conquer, that I would then spend ten years learning over and over again that most things in life are out of my control. My job now is all about adapting, waiting, worrying, working toward something that is usually intangible, immeasurable, unpredictable, sometimes unattainable.
And that's harder.
Yesterday on October 12, this baby was due. Or so every one of the 7 or 8 ultrasounds said so (I lost track of how many—remember that I've been learning to focus less on measurable numbers and more on intangibles). But I knew that the baby was due October 22nd. I knew when my LMP was (January 15) and that the child could not easily have been conceived until January 23rd when we arrived in Panama and the romance and "trying" began anew.
Yet I believed the perinatologist, two sonographers, and the many images I took home with me with the due date of October 12 consistent.
But the day has come and gone, and October 22nd feels more like the day now. Can I trust that feeling? I also thought the baby was a girl and that I would have pre-term labor. Ha!
Already I have had 2 grandpas come and stay for awhile, watching me closely and making predictions that surely the baby will come tomorrow . . . or maybe tomorrow. And now I'm about to send 1 Nana Gurney off to Dallas on a train until further notice. I've received around 27 phone messages from people that all say the same thing: "Hi Mindy, are you in the hospital?" Last week I was dilated to a 2, effaced 80%, with the baby's head at +1.
But they are all numbers. And babies defy numbers. They start with due dates, then move on to feeding times, nap times, potty training timelines. Numbers tell me that one of my children is a more advanced reader than the other, but the one with lower numbers actually LOVES reading. Numbers tell me that one of my children is not growing and thriving, but I don't worry because I know he eats and feels happy almost all the time.
Numbers. Due dates. Hogwash.
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