My midwife says that my pregnant body is like a plane hovering over the airport, not ready to land yet.
When the contractions first started on Friday night, we all got so excited. My sweet man rushed out to pack up the car and make sure the baby seat was installed corrected. But when he came into the bedroom and tried to take my exercise ball from me, I said, “No! Not yet, I’m still using this!”
The contractions were still mild, without any clear pattern, and although my first baby had come into the world so fast, this time, my gut told me, It’s not quite time yet.
In the morning, my father called for his daily check in, and when he heard that my contractions had started, it set off a family phone tree. Everyone wanted “the news.” I turned the music up loudly so I wouldn’t hear that darn phone ring and ring. I felt like a watched pot waiting to boil.
Sure enough, the contractions stopped. All week, though, the contractions have continued to come every other night for hours. By daylight, they stop, like a game of “Red light, green light.”
I’ve learned that there’s actually a word for this: “prodromal labor.” It’s not false labor, as some people have called it, because the contractions are much stronger and longer than Braxton Hicks. They feel real!
My body must be revving up. Every time the contractions stop, I ask for courage and patience. I’ve looked at myself in the mirror and wondered I’m hanging onto any fears: of change, of the unknown, of the new. It’s my turn to let go.
I’m ready for you, little one, whenever you decide it’s time.
Photo by Johan Cloete
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