The waiting game

I’m three weeks out from this little lady’s due date and oof. Part of me can’t help but think, given our track record, that there’s no chance I’ll go that long. My oldest, bless him, had the good sense to make his debut a whopping fourteen days early. My daughter came seven days before her due date and we had our third induced (something I would never repeat, but that’s a story for another day) seven days early as well. So while my official due date with this little lady is July 18, I’m wildly optimistic that she’s coming, you know, tonight.
And really, it’s not all wishful thinking – there are a few signs that things are happening. She’s been head down for ages now, evidenced by all these swift kicks to the ribs, and she dropped a few weeks ago. That was the end of kickboxing for me—I can barely lift my knees, let alone kick—plus the official beginning of the late-pregnancy waddle. But more significantly, I lost my mucous plug, which has never happened to me before. The glamorous name is a dead ringer—it’s a plug-sized wad of gluey mucous, all right.
I immediately polled all my friends, and the first one I spoke to royally screwed me over when she announced that I’d be having my baby any minute now, because 24 hours after she lost her plug, her water broke and contractions began. I was psyched, until the next friend I spoke with said she walked around for a week and half after losing hers, went past her due date and finally had to be induced. So take that lost whole mucous plug theory with a grain of salt. In my case, it’s been nearly two weeks and I’m still very much pregnant. And hormonal! I’m not normally a weepy person—hormonal spikes make me irritable more than anything—but I lost it when I noticed my husband was folding clothing in the very particular way that I like it done (what can I say? It’s one of my things). Usually he folds clothes however, but for some reason he was taking the time to fold things just right, and well, I got pretty blubbery about the whole thing.
So. The baby has dropped, I lost the plug, hormones are all over the place. But the truth is, none of it matters because there’s just no way of knowing. I’m thinking, jumping jacks? A brisk walk/slow jog/who am I kidding, I’ll be speed waddling? I’ll keep you posted.