She was late. Very very very late. She was meant to come on or around June 13th, 1997 and she was late.
I remember each passing day. I’d speak to her in utero, “Come on out, baby…it’s beautiful today! We’re having ice cream! Come on out.” She’d kick stubbornly. (She had, as I would find out enormous feet and exceptionally long legs.) I didn’t know if she was a boy or a girl despite our best efforts to find out. All I knew is that she was comfy and she was late.
A day passed. No big deal. A week. Still “normal” for first babies. 2 weeks. A little outside the norm but she was fine according to ultrasounds and heartrate scans.
People would call and say the world’s most stupid things. “Are you still pregnant?” “Didn’t you have that baby yet?”
I was huge. I was really quite astoundingly huge. This being my first baby I mistakenly thought that ho-ho’s were now on the menu. It was hot. It was africa hot. I was miserable.
On the 18th day after my due date I felt something. It was a feeling I hadn’t had before, not too painful but I was fairly certain it was the signal for the next thing…early labor…thanks be to God.
36 hours later…gah…she came out to greet the world and a tired tired tired set of parents. She was perfectly healthy…no problem staying inside 18 extra days…no problem waiting for a long labor and 6 hours of pushing…happy as a clam and ready to tackle the world. She was a sight for sore eyes. She was amazing.
Now, today, thirteen years later,…she’s just as stubborn, still takes her own sweet time and still ready to tackle the world. I think she’ll win. She’s amazing, my daughter.