Control freak

No reason. I just like it.

Dear Thumper,

Hi. This is Mom.

So, I'm a control freak. An A-type personality. An Alpha female.

Whatever you call it, I'm that person who likes schedules, works to deadline and designs contingency plans for the contingency plans. You can probably understand, therefore, how hard it is for me to be chipper in the face of your non-arrival.

I'm 40 weeks pregnant today. That's 10 months, not nine. That's two months shy of a year of pregnancy. So today - as everyone I know is constantly reminding me via BBM, Whatsapp, SMS, email and phone -  is the due date. D-day. Today's Sunday 27 March 2011. Your day. Where are you, Thumps?

It's entirely possible that, since I am a model pregnant woman (previous smug posts have covered this sufficiently, so I won't dwell on it again here), you're so comfy and happy in there that you don't want to come out. And why would you? Tsunamis, power shortages, Libya - the world's a fairly awful place.

But what worries me is not so much that you're snug and cosy and quite content to stay in there til 'they' come get you, but that p'raps someone somewhere along the way got the effing dates wrong...

Another 10 days? The idea makes me want to cry. Loudly.

Not because being pregnant is so bad, because it isn't. And I'm nowhere near as uncomfortable as I was a few weeks ago (aside from the inability to walk properly and the shitty sleep). But because I'm ready to get started. Or, I was three weeks ago. And the readiness slips away with each week you don't come.

I also feel, control freak that I am, like an abject failure.

Everyone else produces a baby at 37 or 38 or 39 weeks, even naturally. [For what it's worth, I no longer buy into the whole 'most first-time moms deliver late' bullshit, as everyone I know from Preggi Bellies, antenatal class and everywhere else, including my school and varsity friends, has had their baby already, and is busy bonding over weigh-ins and such.] I'm a deadline person. And the deadline is today. Yikes.

I am used to producing the expected masterpiece on time.

Or before. I'm pathologically, reliably early. For everything.

I've been told that you're trying to teach me patience, and the critical parenting lesson that is: I can no longer control anything, and must fit into your schedule, whatever that may be. Fine. Well. Good. But can we get started? Because I'm fast losing my nerve. And I need my nerves. Or, so 'they' say.

The constant check-ups from loved ones and mates don't help. People mean well, but I feel worse with every call. No, I don't know where the baby is. (Well, I do, but...) No, we didn't forget to phone you. Yes, she's late. Yes, I have heard of the sex/curry/pineapple/reflexology/hot bath/long walk remedy...

Argh.

So, for me, for today, the critical parenting lesson is this:

You may be my daughter, but you're not necessarily like me. Or like Dad. I've gotta suck it up. You may be late for everything, forever. And that's going to have to be okay with me. 

May you be you. That's enough for me. Looking forward...

Love you.

Mom x