My ride pulls up in front of my place of work. It’s a busy place with a constant flow of people, ideas, goods and germs in and out of the doors. I peel myself from the cold, cement wall that is holding me upright and waddle towards the car.
“Hey babe, and baby.”
My husband is in the driver’s seat. He nods at me and then at my watermelon sized belly. I have stopped driving, no longer trusting myself to navigate even the short distance between home and work in this final week of pregnancy.
“I’ve got some bad news for you,” he says with a straight face.
I appreciate the warning, the easing into whatever he is about to share.
“Do you want to hear it now or later?”
His fingers are wrapped around the steering wheel, positioned at 10 and 2.
“Go ahead, I can handle it.”
I rest my hands on top of the bump that is our unborn son who squirms under the pressure. I am only partially listening as my mental capacity has diminished, like a reservoir with all of the water drained out with just the trickle of a creek cutting across the otherwise dry bed.
“I did some recalculations and I think we got the due date wrong.”
He now has my full attention. I turn to him in disbelief and horror.
This is not what a woman who has been pregnant for close to 40 weeks wants to hear.
“Yeah, I think we still have three weeks to go.”
He flicks on the turn signal and changes lanes with a quick glance over his shoulder.
“Three weeks? Three weeks?”
The light at the end of the gestation tunnel has suddenly grown dim; I thought we just had three more days to go of constant trips to the bathroom, swollen ankles, and an award-winning waddle. However, with three days or three weeks as a hostage to our tiny terrorist, it’s all the same when it comes to delivering the mega-baby.
Pain, joy and a scheduled induction if this goes a day past 40 weeks (and that’s the 40 weeks by my calculations.)