Tuesday, September 14, 2010


I was feeling rather proud of the progress Joey and I had made as of the end of this past weekend, especially considering how we're both procrastinators extraordinaire. We got the gliding rocker and ottoman set up in the nursery and I plugged away on a bit more organization. We did some research on digital camcorders, and I pre-ordered a fabulous cell phone over which I've been drooling for months (hey, a mom-to-be needs a reliable phone with a great camera on it, right?).

It was at today's regular doctor's appointment that the proverbial bomb was dropped on me: Because of my hypertension, I will most likely be induced at week 38. Yeah, that's two weeks from now.

Not that my health or Torin's health is any clear and present danger at the moment. In fact, I did a non-stress test today that the doctor deemed "reactive," or normal. My blood pressure is fine. My weight gain is well within a healthy range. But because of my history, well, Torin's history on this planet could very well begin this month instead of next.

I rushed home today and made a giant to-do list for Joey and I tackle. There's a little person who's going to be coming out of me soon--there's lots of cleaning and organizing and shopping left to do.

So I'm panicking, right? Well, I'm also sort of saddened by this talk of induction. I think most women picture themselves going through a completely "normal," "natural" labor that begins on its own, probably in the middle of the night. They dream of waking up their significant others, whispering, "Honey, it's time." I have certainly had my share of these fantasies. But if that's not to be with us, then I need to hurry up and accept it. In the end, it's the arrival of a healthy baby that I need to focus on.