Banana Split

"I'M GOING TO BE PREGNANT FOREVER!!!!"

That was me, wailing to Skippy from the passenger seat of his still shiny and new Grand Prix heading home after an appointment with my OB/GYN. The date was June 5, 2002 BC (Before Cheerios). We had just finished up my scheduled due date appointment. And our baby Banana was showing absolutely no signs of wanting to come out to meet us.

I was hot and huge and miserable and generally convinced that I would be the first woman to carry a baby for fourteen years before finally giving birth to a surly teenager. I wanted my water to break. I wanted my epidural and a margarita. I wanted to hold my little girl in my arms and get her feet the hell out of my ribcage. In other words, I wanted to be DONE.

Poor Skippy, befuddled newlywed husband and nervous father-to-be anxiously patted my hand and assured me that I would NOT be pregnant forever. Of course I ignored him, continuing to sniffle and hiccup and crave cheese whiz and tacos. I mean, obviously *he* didn't understand. And it was all his fault anyway. When we got home, I sulked and waited for him to open my door to help me out of the car. I think he simply waited to see if my head would spin around on my shoulders like in The Exorcist.

For the next few days we tried spicy food, walking, and anything else we could think of. I joked to my Mom that with a full moon coming, maybe I needed to stand outside naked, point my belly to the sky, and pray to the Goddess of Fertility to take pity on me. I was only half joking.

Yet our firstborn daughter remained snugly and stubbornly where she seemed happiest - which unfortunately for me, was in my uterus.

Then on June 9 (exactly six years ago today), we went back to see my good old buddy Dr. Tom, who at this point I was convinced was Satan in the guise of a short funny Asian man. At the very least he was one of the devil's minions...or worse, a Republican. And then he changed my life. An ultrasound showed that my level of amniotic fluid had dropped - a sure sign that my body was getting ready to evict it's cozy little resident. Rather than wait for complications, Dr. Tom suggested that we go out to dinner (by we I mean myself and Skippy, not myself and Dr. Tom), pick up my hospital bag, and check in over at labor and delivery later that evening to begin an induction. He assured me that by this time tomorrow, I'd be holding my daughter.

In a haze Skippy and I walked out of the office hand-in-hand, on our way to take his advice and enjoy our last supper as non-parents. It was really going to happen. And all of a sudden, after nine months and five days of waiting, I wondered if I could possibly be ready.