I spent the morning of my due date crying.
I was so certain Ender James would be born early. Certain because my doctor said it first. Four weeks earlier. That’s when my baby dropped, a process also known as “lightening” (so funny medical community) when the baby literally drops into the mother’s pelvis. Imagine carrying a bowling ball around with your crotch. I couldn’t lift one leg up to step into bed or the car or put my pants on without wincing in pain. I waddled everywhere. And I went from peeing 10 times an hour to peeing every .006 seconds. This is supposed to be a sign that labor is coming soon. Supposed to being the key phrase. I am not a patient person. I am the one who melts a stick of butter in the microwave while trying to soften it, leaving behind pathetic lumps drowning in a greasy pool in the butter dish.