Stasis

For over two weeks, I have been hesitant to start a load of laundry, for fear that we would be rushing towards the hospital before I put it in the dryer. If I make a pan of lasagna, I don't know if I should even put it in the oven, because forty-five minutes is such a huge commitment. There are a thousand such considerations in any day, and we've had two weeks of these days. Other than uneventful trips to the midwife, where membranes are stripped, stress tested, and dilation checked, we hardly leave the house. At the end of every day that passes without this kid we look back on all the time we've spent sitting on our hands and wish we had done something constructive with it, you know, because it's never going to be the same again. Every morning we wake up and wonder what we're still doing in this old life. And still, here we are.

One minute, Wood is animatedly reading me this week's incredible Miss Manners, and the next her head is buried in my chest, her massive belly between us. She wants so badly for this baby to be outside of her body. I quickly learned you can't feed an overdue pregnant woman platitudes like "he'll come out when he's ready." You can feed her chocolates. And give her foot rubs. And hold your breath together.