Two Weeks Overdue
Every year on June 12, I turn to my son and say, "Today should have been your birthday." He was 15 days late. They were the longest days of my life. And so far (he's 7), I'm not over it.
I remember his due date. I went to see the latest Batman movie with my husband and some friends from work (none of whom had kids). One of my work buddies made me sit on the aisle "Just in case the baby comes." Yeah, I should have been so lucky that the baby would arrive before the end of the movie. Of course, I didn't really think that would happen. But I did think my son's birth was imminent.
The first couple of days past the due date ticked by. And I tried to act casual. Because everybody knows that only a tiny fraction of babies arrive on their due dates. Usually that's just an approximation.
Or in my son's case, a very, very broad suggestion.
At the one-week-late date, my phone began to ring. Is the baby here yet? No. Sorry. Just me. At this point, my friends and relatives were all happy to just gab with me on the phone about how huge I must be and how uncomfortable in this early summer heat and blah, blah, blah. I tried to keep my sense of humor.
On Day 9, my mother called. Was the baby here yet? Mom, really. Did you think I would have the baby and not tell you?
Nope, the baby was taking his time.