Baby No. 1’s due date: January 10. Every single person I talked to told me that first babies always come late. And because the general public seems so well-informed and trustworthy, I went ahead and believed them. I resigned myself to the fact that the baby would come sometime after January 10. So you can imagine how surprised I was when my water broke on December 31! That’s right—around 11 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, I waddled into the bathroom to pee, found my husband in there, cutting his toenails (as one does on the eve of a New Year) when my water broke. It’s possible that my husband had been enjoying the New Year’s Eve festivities (based upon the fact that I had, earlier in the day, assured him with a 100 percent guarantee, that the baby was not coming that day) and, as a result of such celebrating, was unable to drive. That’s right—we had to hitch a ride to the hospital with my dad, like two teenagers. We’re nothing if not classy.
Baby No. 1’s arrival: Nine days early.
Baby No. 2’s due date: August 16. Because Baby No. 1 came 9 days earlier than expected, I put it into my head that Baby No. 2 would also come nine days early. My OB assured me that that’s not the way it works; just because one baby comes early does not mean that all subsequent babies will also come early. Because that wasn’t what I wanted to hear, I immediately dismissed what she had to say and went on thinking that Baby No. 2 would arrive early. So you can imagine my disappointment when nine days before August 16 came and went without a baby. Then eight days. Then seven days. Six … Five … Obviously the doctor (and her fancy medical degree) were right. But then, on August 12, four days before his due date, my water broke, and Baby No. 2 arrived on the scene.
Baby No. 2’s arrival: Four days early.
Baby No. 3’s due date: March 26. My original due date with Baby No. 3 was April 2. But then, at an early ultrasound, the baby was measuring big, so they pushed the due date up by a week. My husband was steadfast throughout my pregnancy that the original due date was the right one. March 26 came and went without any sign of Baby No. 3. I posted a picture on Facebook of my 40-week belly with the caption “40 Weeks. That’s it, baby; time’s up. Get out.” And I meant it. It was time for that baby to get out. But the baby wasn’t interested. And I was left in a position where I had to decide if I wanted to be induced or wait and see if the baby would make a move on its own. The misery of being 40 weeks pregnant won out, and Baby No. 3 was evicted, via induction, on March 28. I think I’ll always wonder if April 2 was actually her due date and I’m wrongly accusing her of being late to the party.
Baby No. 3’s arrival: Two days LATE.
Baby No. 4’s due date: February 15. So here we are now, with Baby No. 4 on the way, and because I like to spend my free time worrying about things that are completely outside of my control, I’ve taken to worrying about whether Baby No. 4 will come on its own or if it will have to be evicted, like Baby No. 3. I was pretty upset with the idea of being induced for Baby No. 3. I don’t have any good reasons except that I am insane and being induced felt, to me, like quitting. I told this to my OB, and she told me that that literally made no sense. I know she’s right. But it’s still how I felt. Now, almost two years removed from that decision, I think being induced is a fine way to go. Especially with three other kids in the mix. An induction will allow me to plan ahead for who’s going to take care of them when the baby is born. Somehow running around in the middle of the night, leaking fluid while trying to get ahold of my mom to come watch the kids doesn’t sound like much fun. Who knows what’s in store for Baby No. 4’s arrival, but if this peanut follows the trend of arriving later that the baby before, an induction might be on the table. And that’s fine with me.
Baby No. 4’s arrival: TBD