Counting

If I were an old-timey prisoner, I'd be carving hash marks into the walls and dragging my cup along the bars, demanding food, justice—or maybe both.

But I am here, in the present day, and I'm instead counting the days. Counting the days up—10 since I've found out that Babycakes is trying to make her way into the world early. Counting down...to when she arrives. Except we no longer have any idea at all about when that might be. We just know it might be much sooner than we thought.

When I made the appointment, the receptionist looked at me and said "How about December 10?" I said, "oh! That's my birthday!" She said, "Oh, you probably don't want to come on your birthday, let me see what else we have here."

But I stopped her from finding a date the following week. "It'll be a gift to hear her heartbeat on my birthday," I said. "Book it."

Thank goodness we did.

We spent the first part of the appointment chatting about pregnancy symptoms (I, blissfully ignorant, only listed some exhasution and a little hip pain). The midwife clapped her hands efficiently and said, "Well, you're breezing right through! Get up on the table and we'll have a listen."

While she listened for the heartbeat, I asked if Babycakes was still head down. I'd been getting some hard bulge on my right side near my ribs and there'd been a lot of activity the weekend before. I wondered if she got off track.

The midwife felt around. "Hm," she said, sort of puzzled. "I can't find her head."

I giggled. Headless baby.

Then her face got kind of serious, and she said "You know, I'm going to have you get undressed. I'll be back."

I looked over at William. "Shit?" I said, but sort of asked. William looked concerned.

The midwife breezed back in. "I'm just going to do a check," she said, as she snapped on some gloves. I steeled myself.

"Um, well, there's her head," she said.

What?

"You're done with everything. No going to the office. No laundry. No walking dogs." She took the gloves off.

What?

So yes, we learned the baby was head down....and heading down. I had no idea. No symptoms, really. Things are tenuous at best, I realized. And it's too early. "On a scale of one to ten, how freaked out should I be?" asked her. I needed some kind of gauge.

"Well, you're likely looking at NICU time if you deliver now," she said. Oh. That kind of freaked out. She never did give me a number.

Ultrasound revealed long femurs. And a possibly 5.5-pound baby. Who is definitely trying to make her way out.

So for ten days, that's what I've been thinking about. How my baby is already sneaking up on me, taking the wheel, upending my life. How my life is already being given over to hers. Lying here in hopes she doesn't show up before Christmas. Or even before the new year.

It's a weird feeling to be confined to the bed, or the couch, but not feel sick. And not feel like I'm having anything really happen yet. I have to remind myself not to get up for menial tasks. To say yes when people offer help. To stay calm.

After the steroid shot and the exams...my husband attempted to make my birthday special. To erase the freaked-out present I got earlier in the day. He went to a fancy grocery store and asked for their two best New York strip steaks. He told the butcher his wife got bedrest for a present and needed some cheering up.

He melted blue cheese on the top, made spicy broccoli, mashed potatoes. We ate off china while I laid on the couch, and he lit a single candle for me to blow out on my red velvet cake.

I think it was the first dinner where we maybe felt like parents. Not like starry-eyed parents-to-be. Like honest-to-god, holy shit there is a human being in there we need to protect and worry about parents. Sobering. I guess maybe that's what happens when you turn 32 and you're pregnant.

Since then, there's been a flurry of activity around me as I watch from my perch. William frantically getting orders out the door in case the baby comes. My mom coming to make me lunch and clean the kitchen and make grocery runs. Friends appearing with food, well wishes, good distractions. My sister brings pajama pants and socks, my brother brings food. Me wrapping up my own work in hopes it's not a shambles while I'm on leave.

And then I have these moments of stillness. Where all I'm supposed to do is lie here and be quiet. Just me and Babycakes. I breathe deeply. I tell her she'd be an awesome Christmas present, but she'd sure be screwed for birthdays for her whole life. That it's cold outside and she should stay warm. That even though I am starting to let myself dream of her face, what she might be like, or look like, that I can wait a little while longer, and she should too. That I'd hoped she'd get her patience from somewhere else in the gene pool, and not to be impatient like her mom and dad. Be a good girl. I'm already admonishing her.

I'm just not a still, quiet person. I dream every night of losing my locker combination, being late to class, being unprepared for a test. Over and over and over. I practice being quiet. I count her hiccups. I think about what to put in the hospital bag. I pet the dogs. I read. I finish a mountain of thank-you notes. In some ways, I've never been so efficient.

I remind myself when I get restless of the second day after I found out. Eyes snapped open at 4:30 a.m. Feeling pukey. Something not right. Taking a shower and feeling my belly round out and harden over and over. Thinking, nonononononononono.

No. Not yet.

Maybe she's practicing too, I realize, because since then, so far, so good. 10 days down. Who knows how many to go. I wait.