For the second time in my life the calendar has turned to November when I was supposed to have a baby in October. I’m not making this up. I wrote this three years ago TODAY. You’ll see. I didn’t publish it until later. This time I’m letting it out.

It’s back. The darkness. The up-and-down fury. All of it.

That old familiar madness.

You would think I would have been prepared this time. I worked through my due date, which is better than last time when I worked up until 2 days before my due date. This week we went to the doctor on the 30th. My due date. I was so happy. We had worked so hard to get through this last month. Work was handed off, we dutifully took bags and the car seat and left them at daycare, ready for Grandma. We had a plan. The doctor would likely schedule an induction for the next day, we’d be home by Saturday for Charlotte’s birthday. Not this time.

I’m a fool. Once again, I am a victim of my expectations. I am an eternal optimist who assumed, wrongly, that it would work out this time and I would be as lucky as my friends who have already had their babies. Nope. Instead I remain panicky, weepy and dissolving into sobs on my closet floor like a damned psycho.

I had a friend tell me that when his wife went in to have their baby earlier this year a woman stood in the OB’s office and continued to scream until they agreed to admit her. She refused to go another week. I totally understand. I don’t judge her. Keep it up girl. Have that baby. Good for you. Get what you need from your medical professionals.

I know. I’ve heard it all. “You have to let nature take it’s course!” “Your baby is not ready.” “You have to let your body do what it needs to do.” “Another week isn’t that bad.” “You’re only two days past your due date!”

Shut the hell up. All of you. You have no idea the hormonal exhaustion of this. You think I don’t know all of that?!

My favorite thing I heard this week was, “You know, in Europe they don’t even consider induction until after 42 weeks.  Over there they have great methods of helping with natural childbirth.” Well, great! When I decide to move to Sweden and have a litter of little ex-pats born naturally in artisian Swedish pools, I’ll keep that in mind. Oh! Just to remind you, most European women have a year of paid maternity leave. I’m a working American mother and do not have that luxury. I chose a modern OB/GYN practice for a reason. This is about time. Time with my baby and money for my family.

Granted, I have been very blessed with great employers offering benefits far better than some other women get. I understand this. I’m very appreciative. But, the time I will actually get home with my newborn is very fleeting.

Wednesday the doctor informed me that a push in obstetrics is to not induce unless medically necessary. Okay, was anyone going to tell me that? I have done everything I was supposed to. Last week at 39 weeks the doctor said, “Okay, well, if you’re still pregnant next week, we’ll talk induction.” Great. I assumed that meant I’d be scheduled for the next day. She knew that is what we did last time. I lost my shit about 40 weeks and they agreed to induce me at 40 weeks 5 days. That alone, was maddening.  Waiting until 41 weeks, ridiculous. Two additional days is a lifetime. I know that’s crazy, but it is. Trust me.

People then say, “But, being induced can mean complications for your baby and a very hard labor!” Bull shit. Pitocin is a miracle drug and a blessing. Three years ago this week they started that stuff and I had my baby in about 4 hours and 35 minutes. I only pushed for the 35 minutes. Minimal tearing. Done. Easy. It was far preferable to another week of sobbing and counting vacation hours.

Due dates are the biggest crock of shit in the world. Obstetrics and meteorology are the two professions where you can predict what’s going to happen, be wrong most of the time  and still keep your job. News flash! The rest of the working world is on tight deadlines and demand accuracy. This was all fine 100 years ago. It is unacceptable in 2013. Maybe obstetrics should consider giving a “due range” instead of a “due date” if not for employers, but for the mental health of mothers.

I busted my ass this month to make it happen, to get it all done on time. I did. Now, I sit here like a damned fool with a laid out maternity leave plan and a packed bag that remains by the door. And for what?!

I asked to be checked today and the doctor explained it’s part of the hospital’s “Quality Matters” initiative not to induce until 41 weeks unless medically necessary to lower their c-section rate. Oh, you mean the c-section rate that I IN NO WAY CONTRIBUTED TO WITH MY SAFE, MEDICALLY INDUCED VAGINAL DELIVERY!? Yep, that one.

I was home yesterday and again today because I feel like crap and I can’t bring myself to show this crazy to the awesome people I work with. I’ll figure out over the weekend whether I’ll go back into the office.

This is the nitty-gritty stuff no one tells you about before you have a baby. If this psychotic rant helps another mother, maybe it will be worth it. I was praying wouldn’t be an issue this go-around. I was wrong. Oh, so wrong.

I’m here, once again relying on obstetrics and meteorology to decide my fate. There is a storm/low pressure system coming in that I can only hope will induce labor. I heard it might. But again, I’m a hormonal fool and clearly know nothing. I feel very sorry for my family and friends because I’m so awful. If I were them, I wouldn’t call or text me. Sorry. I’m just crazy.  I’d be seriously afraid of me and my madness right now. That old familiar 40 week madness.

We brought her home three years ago, almost to the week. We blinked and this happened.

We washed everything. We pulled out all the things we had forgotten that we couldn’t live without. We marveled at the size of the tiny clothes we folded. Our memories were jarred pulling bouncy seats and nursing covers out of closets.

I smelled her hair and held his hand, knowing that our time as three was short. 40 weeks is fast approaching and for the first time in many weeks, I stopped working and stopped allowing myself to be distracted and instead, prepared my home and my heart for another baby.

There isn’t much left to do except go through the motions of the next week. I’m not sure how ready one little family can be, but we are.

Last week we celebrated our 3-year-old before she really turned three. I made some cute invitations with Charlotte’s picture, clearly depicting the theme.

(True story. We got to the Disney store and I saw the price of the Rapunzel wig. I said, “Charlotte, put this on and let Mama take your picture!” It was robbery. No way. Maybe for Christmas. Maybe.)

We had all of her little classmates and friends at a local bounce house kiddie facility. Bounce, pizza, cake, out. Awesome. This place was a party producing machine. I didn’t have it in me to get all Pinteresty like I did last year you know, being nearly 9 months pregnant and all. (Note the message in the sun on the invitation.)

We kept asking her why we were having her party early. She said, “Because da baby’s comin at my birfday on Nobember 2nd!” True. There is a real likelihood that that our children will have the same birthday. Charlotte was due Oct. 28 and born November 2. (Thank you, Pitocin!) This kid is due Oct. 30.  So, seriously, they could have the same birthday.

People act like this is a big problem or something. They always say, “Oh! That would suck if they have same birthday!” Huh? Seriously? There are many, many siblings who share birthdays.  Want proof?

Meet my twin cousins Scott and Meagan. This is them on their 1st birthday in 1983. Cute right?

See. twins and other multiples are siblings who share birthdays. I find it hard to believe sharing a birthday with your brother or sister is as scarring as people keep telling me it is. They’re like, “Oh my God! Are you going to have SHARED birthday parties?” Um, yeah. Probably. Like next year when they’re 1 and 4. What do they care? Cake, presents, done. They’re kids.

People are then like, “But, what about when they’re older! They should have their own day!!!!” Geez, relax. If we act like it’s bad thing, it becomes a bad thing. Guess what? We’re gonna make it an awesome thing. So help the person who says anything negative to my children about shared birthdays. So, Baby #2, don’t worry. If we meet you on your sister’s birthday it will be awesome! Anyone who said it isn’t is not invited to our awesome parties. So there.

Friday when I was leaving work I was ready to go home and make spaghetti. It was just a night for a big pot of spaghetti. We were going to eat and relax, finally. It was a cool and dreary day that ended a chaotic work week.

I picked up Charlotte from school and we went to Target so she could pick out a birthday present for her friend. I got some hamburger for the sauce. We had noodles at home. Charlotte picked out a Disney Cars book that spouted off sayings of the characters. We loaded up our bags and headed home, hungry for spaghetti. I didn’t let her take the cellophane off of her friend’s book so she just pushed the buttons.

I was listening to her activate the voices of Owen Wilson and Larry The Cable Guy over and over when we got near the local high school. There was a huge line of traffic in the other lane waiting to get to the high school football game. I thought, “Ugh! Remind me not to drive this way on Friday nights.”

When people say it happens fast, that’s an understatement. All I saw was a dark-colored sedan pull out from a side street when they got a break in the traffic. A black bullet of glass and metal that somehow, didn’t hit us. I dodged the bullet by swerving into the grass  on the right hand side of the road. The car ran parallel beside me for a second or two, just long enough to see that he forced me into the side of a fence. My side mirror and fender helped rip the rails of the fence off its posts. It was the side of the car where my sweet baby was reading her book about cars a lot nicer than this one.

He didn’t stop. He saw what he did and drove away. He gunned it after I dodged his first bullet. He left me eight months pregnant on the side of the road with my toddler and broken car. Class act.

I pulled the car to a stop, turned on the hazards and turned to check on her. I said, “Are you okay?” She nodded, looking confused. I asked again, “Are you okay?” My brave girl didn’t cry. She nodded and said, “Yes Mama.”  I told her to keep looking at her book and locked the doors.

I called 911 while walking around my Jeep. A nice eyewitness came running across the street. 911 routed me to State Highway Patrol because for some reason they couldn’t decide whether I was in the city or the county even though I was a block from the city’s largest high school. I told her no one was hurt and I didn’t need an ambulance. I called Greyson. The representative from the homeowners association stopped to survey his fence and give me his information.

The part that pissed me off the most is that it took almost 1/2 an hour for either SHP or the police to get there. Greyson had to call 911 twice more after he pulled up. He and I talked and unwrapped the cellophane on the book. We didn’t think Harrison or Beth Anne would care at that point if the book was slightly used. She was being so good. When Greyson was on the phone with the operator he asked me for her, “Do you need an ambulance?” I said,”Well, if that’s what it takes to get someone out here!” Just then both SHP and the police pulled up only to have a ridiculous conversation as to whom would take over my case. Seriously. I just asked for one of them to please take care of it. It was light when it happened and it was dark by the time law enforcement got to me. Enough said.

I’m blessed enough to work with awesome people, one who lives nearby. I heard my name being yelled across the street and Michelle ran towards me. She grabbed me and hugged me while explained all that happened.

The trooper told me about how he had seen someone run off the road, into a fence, and the fence had impaled them. I thanked him for the reminder that neither me, nor my child was impaled. He then told me it that without a license plate number that it was unlikely that anything would happen to this guy. I started to wonder if the cop would have been as honest. Geez, dude.

After filing the report, Greyson and I collected the remains of my fender and mirror. We held each other on the side of the road for just a second, the hazard lights illuminated his face a moment at a time.  I was so glad he was there. I told him I loved him.

The Jeep was drivable so we took our tired and hungry tot home. She still hadn’t made a peep. She was wonderful and brave. I was so proud. I made spaghetti. There was no way in hell I wasn’t going to eat some damn spaghetti. As I wiped sauce off her face I prayed, thanking God it wasn’t blood. Morbid, I know. I don’t care. It was the best spaghetti I’ve ever eaten.

One month. Tomorrow marks one month until my due date with Baby 2.0. I’ve had an extremely uneasy feeling hanging over me in recent weeks. I can’t explain this obnoxious monkey on my back. He’s a rotten, hairy little beast whispering to me that I’m somehow failing and will never be ready for this baby. This monkey enjoys making sure I feel overwhelmed and unprepared to leave work and be home. He’s the reason my husband has been putting his arm around me in the kitchen and reminding me it will all be okay.

Every moment of my October is planned and scheduled out so I can fit everything in I need and want to do before my October 30 due date. Charlotte’s Halloween costume is bought, her birthday party is scheduled a few weeks early. I’m sending out invitations this week. I’m adding to my work list and taking time to develop a plan for my departure.

I got an welcome and much needed reprieve from my worries this weekend. My sister came to town and threw a brunch in honor of Baby 2.0. Just family and close girlfriends. I felt like the luckiest person on the planet to have my mom and sister plan a lovely party for me. I couldn’t stop smiling, chatting, sipping coffee and eating fresh made doughnuts at one of my favorite coffee/lunch spots.

The best part of the weekend? Taking pictures with my sister, knowing that Saturday was likely the only day in our lives we will ever be together in person with round bellies to bump and pregnancy symptoms to share. We won’t be back together until after my baby is born. It was truly a once-in-a-lifetime chance to snap these pictures. I look at these and my heart swells up. It knocks the monkey off my back like it had never been there.

Me at 35.5 weeks. Julie at 24.5 weeks.

This weekend and these pictures are the reminder I need not to be stressed or dread this month. Instead, they are the reminder that this October is the last month of my life as the mother of one child. The last month as a family of three. I’m choosing to embrace all the excitement, good or bad. Let’s go October. It’s gonna be a good one. Take that, monkey!