Parents come in all ages, sexes, shapes and sizes, yet they have one thing in common – they have a child. Biological or adopted, one they see every day or on the weekends, the common thread is the small person they look after and love.
So as of today, two days after my due date, I am still a parent in waiting. An increasingly large and uncomfortable parent to be.
I should have expected as much. My husband and I could both be described as stubborn at times. Why would I think that our child would show up on the day she is expected? Or for that matter, within a couple of days of her expected due date.
To add to the general frustration that comes along with waiting for labor, I’ve heard predictions from friends and family for the past month as to when they think I will actually deliver my first child.
I hate to say it, but it appears everyone was wrong. The full moon in August came and went, Labor Day weekend (get it, Labor Day) was uneventful and the due date appears to have been a shot in the dark.
So I wait. We wait. Attempting to sleep without disruption and enjoy our last days together as a twosome.
But the event looms and I’m starting to realize that it may be impossible for me to plan or predict too many things for the next 30 years or so.
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