Are we there yet?

After an ultrasound on Tuesday that produced a photo resembling the Buddha himself (now we know where all that sugar I'm craving is going -- hello cheeks! hello belly!), my midwife and my doctor have advised that we induce prior to Little Brother's due date. Apparently, however, getting onto the induction schedule is a bit like trying to get your child onto a private school's matriculation list, and my doctor had to beg, borrow, and steal to get me a slot. Or maybe just make a few phone calls. I don't know. Everything is so much more dramatic these days (thank you again, hormones).

So here we are, facing another THE BIG DAY without having to go through the excitement that is the 3 a.m. waking up of the husband to say "it's time," or having your water break and screaming "Somebody get me a taxi!" or, heaven forbid, relying on complete strangers to talk you through lamaze techniques on the dressing room floor at Nordstrom's. No, we will be strolling into the hospital, drama-free, at 7:30 this Friday evening, bags perfectly packed and Anika all settled with whomever will be her caretaker for the evening.

(Incidentally, THAT person will be the one experiencing the drama, at least for the first few hours, when they are struggling to put her to bed and Armando and I are watching bad TV while I watch pitocin drip into my veins and curse the invention of the IV.)

Maybe this sounds weird, but as psyched as I am to meet this little guy, I'm a tad bit disappointed that I'll never experience a "real" labor. You hear people gush about how beautiful and raw and wonderful their birthing experience was -- and some people actually draft up a "birthing plan" that includes the use of a hot tub, for god's sake! -- while I seem to only recall the pain and the disappointment of lack of cervical cooperation and the absolute horror of the final five hours of my ordeal with Anika. Don't get me wrong, I've heard horror stories that pretty much kick mine to the curb, and I really shouldn't complain since everything turned out just fine in the end. Yet part of being a mother is the experience of welcoming your child into the world, and I feel a bit cheated that my body doesn't seem to want to do this labor thing the natural way.

On a positive note, however, this means I can schedule a pedicure for Thursday afternoon and at least be able to think, 'wow, my toes look good,' when the rest of me feels like I've been wrung through a giant pasta machine and twisted inside out.