I've been in early labor all weekend.
I'm having a contraction right now as I type this.
Isn't life grand?
No, but seriously, it could be worse. At least my body is working right now.
But, no, there is still no baby. Here I sit, 39 weeks with child, and she's still floating around in my uterus, a week longer than her sister vacated occupancy.
This kid, I tell you. She's trouble.
I have cried about it, I'll admit. I have done every tried-and-true technique out there to get this show on the road. I actually went for a jog when I felt some contractions Sunday.
And they stopped.
What woman, at 39 weeks pregnant, jogs and stops her contractions?
So, yeah, there's that.
I decided around yesterday morning that all the herbs and supplements and walking and other stuff that is doctor-recommended was bull-hockey.
So I decided to look into some old wives' tales.
Like a certain eggplant parm recipe from a Georgia restaurant that is so famous for inducing labor they maintain a Web site and wall in their restaurant of babies they have "brought into this world."
Well, guess what I made for dinner last night? From scratch? Yielding about 18 pounds of Italian-y eggplant? Oh, yeah.
Do you know how long it takes to prep and fry three whole giant eggplants? Because I do.
I'm convinced the process alone would put most mamas into labor.
Except me, of course.
I also baked a sea-salt chocolate chip cookie some friends of mine swear by.
And they were so delicious, I almost forgot I wasn't in labor yet.
But still, no baby. They didn't work, either.
Mama. Is. Done.
I cannot eat spicy pad Thai anymore.
I cannot bounce on that darn exercise ball anymore.
I cannot rub the acupressure points on my ankles and between my thumb and forefinger anymore.
I cannot tell myself, "No one is pregnant forever, right? RIGHT?" anymore.
I puked for 20ish weeks with both my girls while pregnant. But this is worse.
Waiting and watching and wondering. Way worse.
Only so many servings of cheesy eggplant can assuage my feelings of betrayal from my own body, sometimes.
And then other times, I treasure my last alone moments with Ella. Giggling and tickling her and letting her to talk to "Sissy Baby," who, she has decided, will come out potty-trained ("Sissy poop in diapies, mama!") but still nursing ("Sissy hungy, mama. Sissy nurse!")
Maybe Ella knows something we don't.
In fact, she has now lasted longer than anyone thought she would, save Ella. ("Sissy out later, mama!")
Out of the mouths of babes, I tell you.