So, here's the thing about plans...

That's me up there. Well, it's my belly. With my son in it.

(Whoa. There's a baby in my belly. Even at 38 weeks, it still feels a little surreal.)

Anyway: If you go by the floating-baby-countdown-thingie over there to the right, you'll see we have 14 days left. Two full weeks to go! Yay!

Except that floating baby is a big old liar head.

***

If you're one of the 12 people who read this blog "regularly," then you'll have noticed I haven't blogged much during this pregnancy. This is primarily because my day job, while thoroughly enjoyable, has been especially demanding during the entire run of the pregnancy. In fact, while in utero, this child has been on more trips than he likely will ever take again in the course of a year. (Seattle twice, Delaware twice, zip zap zip, plus he attended an NKOTB concert in there, too; don't ever say I don't expose my children to high culture).

And, I'll confess: Part of why these baby update blogs have been so few and far between is that there...hasn't been that much to report. I have been blessed with an extremely easy and uneventful pregnancy, and I've been reluctant to jinx it by giving voice to it. "Why, no, I'm not feeling nauseated, my feet aren't swollen, I haven't gained 60 pounds, I don't have gestational diabetes or high blood pressure and the baby is flourishing. Please, STRIKE ME, LIGHTNING!"

In fact, the only wrinkle came in the form of an ultrasound that one of my OBs scheduled as an afterthought. I'd asked if she thought it was strange that I'd only gained about 10 pounds in the first eight months of pregnancy, and while they only wanted me to gain 15 to begin with (I'm a curvy girl), she thought it best we just check on the baby's weight.

Thankfully, the baby's weight came in exactly at the 50th percentile, meaning he was exactly average for eight months in utero, and all seemed well. The doctors were a little concerned, however, that my amniotic fluid was a bit on the low side. "It's not so low that we're panicking," the doctor told us hastily, since I'm sure our faces read, "WE! ARE! PANICKING! OMG WHAT IS WRONG WITH OUR BABY?!" "But it's low enough that we just want to keep an eye on it."

Which is how we've found ourselves in the doctor's office twice a week for the last three weeks, having non-stress tests (where a fetal heart monitor does its monitor-y best to determine that our baby's heart is strong and responding appropriately when he moves) and ultrasounds (where, depending on the ultrasound tech, the levels are either low or high and we either freak out or feel reassured).

(Note to ultrasound techs everywhere: TELL THE PARENTS WHAT YOU'RE DOING AS YOU'RE DOING IT. And if you see something that concerns you, either tell them flat out or don't let the concern show on your face. I was about ready to drop-kick the tech one week who flew through the measurements but said nothing except, "When are you going over the results with the doctor? Because...you know...the sooner the better." WHAT IS THAT ABOUT?)

Anyway.

The upshot of three weeks of testing is this: Everything looks normal. The non-stress tests were all fine. The fluid level results from the ultrasounds are mixed -- they go up and down -- but never so low that the doctors were freaking out. Cervical exams showed I'm not dilated or effaced. We were well on our way to reaching our March 5 due date, and we were relieved that no one was talking induction anymore (we really wanted to let this baby come in his own time, unless there was a real medical reason to induce).

Then, on Friday, the doctor marched in and nonchalantly shot all that to hell.

"I've scheduled you for induction on Feb. 28th!" she said, with a smile, in lieu of "hello" or any other kind of normal greeting. "Your fluid levels are OK, but if they go down any more we might start to worry, so I decided that 39 weeks is far enough. Let's get this baby out of you!"

And then she left the room, leaving us holding an appointment card that said, "Induction: 2/28" and, hilariously, "If you're unable to keep this appointment, please cancel within 48 hours."

Yes, thank you, I'd like to cancel this induction and just keep my baby nice and toasty in my womb for another month or so. Laters!

So we gaped at each other and tried to come to terms with the fact that A) our baby was going to have a February birthday, B) anything we'd been planning to get accomplished in that last week before my due date was going to happen NOW or not at all, and, oh yes, C) OUR SON WAS GOING TO COME OUT OF ME IN ELEVEN DAYS.

(Well, now it's eight days. Oh my God.)

***

Things that are bumming me out about this turn of events:

1. First and foremost: I really wanted this baby to be born in his own time. I hate the idea of "forcing" nature's hand. If he's meant to be "overdue," then so be it. Let him pick his own birthday.



2. I'm sad that we'll miss the excitement of "Contractions! Is it time? Let's time them out. MY WATER BROKE! Where's the bag?! Where's the camera? Aahhhhhhhh!" and all those other things that movies have assured me are part of all births.



3. We have one less week to finish a few minor home improvement projects, and I have one less week to train my maternity leave coverage at work. I'm someone who needs to know things are done and done right before I relinquish control. (This never annoys my husband or co-workers, EVER.)

Things that, to my surprise, I'm actually liking about this whole scheduled induction thing:

1. It greatly appeals to the planner in me. Instead of telling family and friends to expect a call "sometime" that the time has come, everyone is well-informed and knows just where to be and when.



2. My husband's parents, who are coming in from out of town, won't have to camp out potentially for weeks, waiting for the baby's impending arrival.



3. T has gotten the necessary kick in the pants to finish the last touches to our humble little nursery so I can finally share some pictures with you all this week.



4. More than anything else, I know precisely when I'm going to get to hold my son for the first time, and watch his daddy stare at him in awe, and finally share his name with everyone who already loves him.

Eight days from now, our lives will change, ready or not, floating-baby-countdown-thingie be damned.

Don't ask me if we're ready. It's a silly question, the answer to which is "no" and "yes" and "maybe" and "DUH."

The nursery is done, the clothes are washed and put away, the bag is packed, the childbirth classes have been had (more on those later), the house is ready, the grandparents are alerted and the dogs...well, they're oblivious, but they've been informed of their new little brother's arrival, too.

Our lives are ready, by all outward appearances.

Let's do this thing.

***

One last plea from a first-time about-to-give-birther: If you were induced, how was your experience? I'd love to hear about it. How long did it take, how did you react to the Pitocin, etc. Lay it on me.

Classic WP: That time I jumped out of a flying thing

It was the summer I turned 18. I had just graduated from high school, and was still adjusting to the idea that, in just a few short months, I would be leaving my parents' house for a scary college campus. No matter that it was only three hours away and I was rooming with one of my best friends; it was a change, and change = scary.

As a kid, I wasn't usually one to take risks. I'd had the same friends nearly my entire life. I didn't like trying new foods, I watched the same movies over and over and over and over (oh, Dirty Dancing).

Any physical risks, especially, were out. I was that kid at summer camp who watched from the water's surface while her friends scaled the ladder to the high jump, then vaulted themselves into the lake in a perfect cannonball, with nary a desire to try it herself. It took me forever to learn to ride a bike because I was so afraid of falling. I couldn't even manage a decent cartwheel as a pre-teen because I was afraid kicking my legs up that high would make me fall over.

True story.

That's why, when my friend P said, "I think we should go sky-diving when you turn 18!" I just laughed.

And laughed and laughed.

Because, hello: P had been my best friend since age 5 when we discovered each other at Vacation Bible School. P had vaulted herself off many a high jump while I waited and watched; she knew better than anyone what a fraidy-cat she was dealing with.

And yet.

As I went off to college, started meeting new people, taking new classes and getting into the social scene on campus (sort of), it kept needling me. Jumping out of a plane. Who would expect it from me, the girl who never tried anything new? What a great way to show everyone the new, improved, one-quarter-of-college-educated, RISK-TAKER Shannon?

I called P before I could change my mind. "Let's do it."

On a chilly weekend in October, we headed to Canton, Ohio, and spent a day taking a different kind of course: How Not to Die When Jumping Out of Planes. We studied the planes we'd be jumping out of, learned the basic moves and techniques and watched videos of unsuccessful jumps. (After watching a tandem jump during which the instructor landed on top of the student, grinding her face into a pile of gravel, we immediately decided we were jumping solo.)

And then, it was time to practice. How do you practice jumping out of a plane? For starters, you have a cardboard replica of the actual plane inside the hangar (demonstrated here by my little brother, who'd come to support his big sister and hopefully not watch her plunge to her death):

Here was the plan: A cable would connect our rip cord to the plane, so when we jumped, it'd pull our chute for us automatically. No instructor to possibly land on us, but also no chance of newbie panicking and forgetting how to deploy the chute. We'd ride up in the plane, Step out onto a tiny platform attached to the wing -- first one foot, then both hands, then the other foot -- and then hang from the wing, letting our feet dangle. When the instructor (from inside the plane) gave us the OK, we'd let go. And fall. And hopefully not die.

It was finally time. We suited up, looking most spectacular...

...and a little like we were headed for an expedition in deep space:



Then it was time to board the plane, which looked so very much smaller and more rickety than we'd imagined:

Only three of us could go up at a time. P's boyfriend hopped in first, followed by P and then me. As we readied for takeoff, I suddenly realized: Last one into the plane jumps first. Gulp.

We took off into a lightly-clouded blue sky, with freezing-cold wind pouring into the plane. I noticed again how rattley the plane sounded. Please, God; please don't let the plane crash before we can even jump out of it.

In what seemed like three seconds, we were at 3,500 feet and the instructor was opening the door. There was literally no turning back now; the other two couldn't jump if I didn't, and there was no way I was making the pilot land the plane so I could march, humilated and un-sky-dived, into the hangar.

So I got onto my hands and knees, said a quick prayer (OK, who am I kidding: I was praying the ENTIRE time) and took the first step. Right foot onto the foot-long platform. Right hand onto the bar. Left hand on the bar. Left foot onto the teeny-weeny platform. OMG, I am OUTSIDE AN AIRPLANE THAT IS CURRENTLY HURTLING THROUGH THE AIR.

It was now or never. I let my feet go, so I was literally hanging from the airplane by only my fingers. I looked at my instructor. "BLARGH!" he yelled.

Wait. What?

"GOOOOOOOOOO! Let GO!!!"

Oh!

I closed my eyes.

I let go.

There were a few moments of gorgeous free-fall, during which I felt completely weightless and terrified and exhilarated all at once. And then I felt my chute deploy, and catch, and I remembered I was supposed to do something. Look up, see if your lines are twisted, if they are don't panic, kick your legs and grab your steering toggles. The day's lesson came back in an instant. And after 30 seconds of kicking and untwisting...

...I was flying.

Oh, friends. If you have never done this, I don't quite know how to describe it to you. All I can say is that I was immediately brought to tears by the sheer beauty of the earth I was now floating gently toward.

In those first few moments, my breath was taken. I didn't know what to do. I was alone up there; no one next to me for me to turn to and say, "Oh. My. God. Are you seeing this?!" What is the proper response in those moments of breathless silence?

Me? I started to sing. And I sang and I sang, up where no one could hear me except God Himself, in a moment that was unlike anything I've ever experienced, before or since.

What, you can't see me? Here I am, still singing:

I don't remember now what I sang, but it really isn't important.

As I started nearing the ground, it occurred to me that I was actually supposed to slow myself down so I didn't break my legs when I landed. I grabbed the steering toggles and guided myself as best I could toward the waiting pick-up truck in the big field where we were supposed to land.

I wish I could tell you that, after my one-person concerto in the sky, I landed lightly on both feet, touching down just like an angel, beaming beatifically as the instructors drove to retrieve me.

But I didn't. My knees immediately crumpled under me and I pitched forward to land...directly on my face. After which I completed a truly ugly version of a forward roll and came to rest on my back, legs akimbo and parachute tangled around me.

Back on earth.

And with a permanent smile on my face.

I am a winner!

While the world may not always agree?

Random.org totally has my back.

The eminently fabulous Couple More Hours, being eminently fabulous, is giving away one of her gorgeous handmade button-eyed dolls. (Haven't checked out her etsy shop? You really owe it to yourself to go there NOW. Her stuff is handmade and SUPER cute.)

I entered to win, and I requested "Bessie," a sassy little blonde with two of the aforementioned button eyes and a kicky flowered dress and leggies. I chose her because she's a cute towhead like my beautiful niece, and Bessie was my beloved late grandmother's name.

I never win anything. But lo and behold, late last night, the Twitterverse delivered unto me the news.

I won!!

My niece, who will be the recipient of little Bessie this Christmas, is totally going to flip.

THANK YOU, Couple More Hours, aka Wendy! I can't wait to meet Bessie in person. :)