It’s a monumental week dear readers. I am thirty-five weeks and there is no baby in sight!
“What are you on about?” I hear you cry.
Well if you recall (or if you didn’t know) my first and second babies were born at thirty-five weeks thanks to a few sweeps, some gel, lots of swaying, a spot of bouncing, some special go-go juice and sheer determination. So set on thirty-five weeks were the ole NHS, due to my kidney transplant, that when my third baby came along and they let me go to thirty-six weeks and five days (I love that extra five days) I was beyond excited. I nearly got a ‘term’ baby.
The fourth time around and after my thirty-three week scan and consultant appointment I waited to hear the news that they would likely induce me again at a similar time. Yet this time was very different. The consultant looked over my results and so pleased was she with me that she turned and said, “I’d be happy for you to got to 37 weeks”
Me: “Really?” Quick calendar calculation. “How about 38?”
Her: “Sure, but no longer than 38!”
Me: “Okay. It’s my sons birthday on week 37 so I’ll come in a day after that”
Her: “Okay. We’ll give you a sweep at 37 and if nothing happens we’ll get you in a week later.”
After a firm handshake, pinky promise, some heavy eye contact and a nod we sealed our meeting.
That’s why there’s no baby yet nor will there be until I go into chez NHS where a deft, gloved hand will reach into my nethers to see what can be released. Until then I shall waddle on hoping and praying that baby doesn’t have different ideas.
I daydream about a chunky baby. What will a ‘term’ baby be like compared to the miniature, premature sparrows that I’m used to? I imagine rather different depending upon weight, although surely by child number four all I’d need to do is sneeze and it’ll be out?