We had our 39-week routine check at the obgyn’s yesterday. Okay, I’ll admit it: I was hoping that he would say something about me going into labour anytime soon. At this juncture in time, I can say that I am finally ready to have this baby.
Instead, Dr T waved us off with a cheery, “See you next week!”
“Next week?” I asked incredulously. “Will I be seeing you here next week?”
“I think so!” he replied with a smile.
I left the clinic feeling a little deflated. You see, back when I was pregnant with Aidan, I decided to work all the way until I delivered the baby, so that I could spend all 16 weeks of maternity leave with him. The timing worked out pretty well: I gave birth to him at 37 weeks and the work load had been light since it was already term break.
This time, I opted to start my leave a little earlier because I am just flat out from six weeks of school. Plus, I was hoping that Two would arrive before my estimated due date since his/her brother had been so impatient. That would allow me a tiny pocket of rest and I’d still be able to spend much of my maternity leave with my babies.
Now, I’d be potentially “wasting” at least a week of leave doing nothing, until Two decides that it’s time to vacate Camp Womb. Which means I’d have one less week with Two the Baby before heading back to work. Sob sob.
I really, really, REALLY expected to have had this baby by now.
Hah. HAR HAR HAR. Goes to show just how obedient my kids are.
Anyhow, silly me. Rather than see the glass as half empty, I should take this as an opportunity to take a breather from work. And more importantly, this is a wonderful chance for me to spend some quality, one-on-one time with my firstborn before his life turns upside down.
We’ve gone to the park to play ball (he kicks and I chase, that impish monkey). We’ve taken train rides. We’ve cuddled up and napped together, his little hand lying gently on my swollen belly. We’ve had tea and cake together. We’ve read books and played with trains. We’ve laid on the sofa and listened to music. We’ve sat together on the bed, looking at the rain pelting down on our window.
This afternoon, he asked me to read to him. The book in his chubby hand was Joanna Cole’s “I’m a Big Brother” – one that he loves to be read to. When we were done, he pointed to one of the illustrations and said, “That’s papa and mama and baby and gor gor.”
I told him that he will become a gor gor when baby is here, and will he be a good gor gor?
“Yes,” he said, thoughtfully.
Beautiful, wonderful moments, just me and him. Like how it used to be when he was born.
It’s not all rainbows and roses, of course. He’s thrown countless tantrums over the oddest of things, and his record is 20 minutes of sobbing over yogurt and biscuit while I was fixing dinner. But rather than lose my temper, all I can do is tell him off firmly, ignore him and then give him a hug and a kiss. He’s always so happy and smiley after that, it’s like the waterworks never happened.
Two-year-olds are the strangest creatures.
So that’s where we are at now: waiting for Two to make his watery exit. In the meantime, it’s just me and my little man making some precious memories together.