Do you remember having to read Beckett's Waiting for Godot in high school English Class? I do. It was painful. Godot never arrives, and English students across the nation are forced to write essays on existentialism and other philosophical nonsense.
It reminds me a little bit of pregnancy.
However, Lord willing, at the end of this interminable journey (40 weeks may as well be for a pregnant girl!), a new little miracle arrives and one forgets how long and frustrating the last few months of baby-incubating can be.
Tonight brings my first real set of contractions. As a mildly experienced birther, I assume that this is false labor, or muscle contractions that further serve to prepare my body to give birth. According to the cute butterfly tracker at the bottom of my blog, I still have one week and two days to go. I have been overdue with the last two children, so I am not expecting an early arrival.
Expectations are a funny thing. Indulge me in an example: I attended a private school for my high school years. My father was the principal of said school, and I had a love/hate relationship with the special uniqueness of my situation. I loved getting to see my precious dad every day, I felt secure knowing he was there at all times, but I also wanted the social freedom most teenagers crave.
I digress. The point is, at this particular school, there were many very wealthy families. We were not among the financially elite. It was not uncommon for something like this to be in the parking lot after school one day:
Ok, the Lamborghini is stretching it. I couldn't find a picture of a gift-wrapped Mercedes. But the gift-wrapped Mercedes? True story.
So an almost sixteen-year-old starts to form some expectations. If other parents are this generous and loving (ha!) with their dear daughters, surely my parents adore me enough to do something just as kind.
Of course, my sweet sixteen was nothing like the consumer-driven, materialistic fantasy I had in my head. After building up lots of trust, and lots of hard-earned minimum wage shekels in my bank account, I was cautiously loaned this:
which I loved, cherished, handwashed, fought bravely against the lack of power steering, learned stick shift on, and finally gave back to my mother the day I bought my very own vehicle. I learned some lovely lessons from this car, but do you see my point about expectations? I have realized that it is an exercise in futility to think that my every expectation will work out.
So the baby shall come in the timing of the good Lord.
And I shall wait.