I could have forgiven him for being fashionably late. I’ve been known to be so myself. In fact, I came into the world three days late, which allowed my parents to enjoy a relaxed Thanksgiving meal — and then recover from the subsequent food coma.
See, I was conscientious. I was considerate.
But this kid has apparently decided to do things on his own terms. And I can understand that. I can respect it even. But my tolerance for it is low until he starts doing those things outside my body.
I keep trying to convince him he’d like it a lot better out here. There’s plenty of room to stretch out (instead of being boxed in by my ribs and hips), and we’ve got plenty of stuff to keep him warm in case he’s worried about that (thank you, freak Midwestern snow dumps). He’s got to be getting pretty bored in there, so I told him about how much there is to see in this world, not to mention the excellent library he already has going in his own room.
But so far, he remains unconvinced.
I thought having to do all the extra tests might be enough motivation for him. Whenever they strap anything to my (huge) belly, he starts squirming & kicking at it. Between the non-stress test and the biophysical profile ultrasound, I thought for sure he’d be ready to come out guns ablazin’ to give them a piece of his mind.
Instead, I fear he has taken his perfect scores on both as an invitation to stay put a while longer.
And don’t even get me started on all the old & new wives’ tales out there. I’ve tried them all (except the coffee potty, because I refuse to waste good coffee sitting on it when I could be drinking it). (Also, who comes up with this stuff?)
I have to admit, part of me hoped he’d get his father’s stubborn streak — which is about 2.7 percent of what mine is. It sure would have made things a lot easier on me, especially down the road. I’d originally thought that Lorelai would be my motherly spirit animal, but now I’m thinking we may end up looking more like this.