I’m sorry to say that I’ve become kind of a jerk.
Today on our way to the doctor’s office a new mom entered the elevator with her baby in tow.
“Aww, he’s so cute,” everyone else gushed. “How old is he?”
“Four days,” the proud mother replied.
Rather than joining the oohing and ahhing that ensued, I shot Andy a glare. He knew exactly what I meant: that could be me. I could have a four-day-old baby by now. But no, I don’t. And I’m awfully grumpy about it. I’m mad at Andy. I’m mad at Abbey. I’m mad at the baby. He’s not yet born and already getting lectures about his behavior.
Rationally I know it’s much more likely for a first baby to come late than early, and yes, my baby is only a day late at this point, which hardly gives me the right to complain. But patience is not among my strengths. (You’re lucky I didn’t have this blog while I was waiting for my security clearance. Trust me, it wasn’t pretty.)
The good news is that I won’t have to wait much longer. My doctor plans to induce on Monday if the baby hasn’t come on his own by then. Six days. I’m sure if will feel like an eternity (and I’m sure I’ll fit more complaining into that time than one could possibly imagine, Andy would like to add), but all things considered six days isn’t so bad.
By mid-next week I’ll be the new mom on the elevator with her coo-worthy son. The only difference between me and that woman I saw today? I doubt I’ll be carrying the kid myself. I think it’s Andy’s turn.