I did it again. I actually chose a (possible) birthday for my child, and it feels as strange and alien this time as it did the last. More so, really, because though I still say "possible," since anything could happen between now and then, the likelihood of me actually making it to my induction date this time seems much higher, somehow.
I had chosen January 24th for Michael, but he never made it to his, and I was ever so relieved. I was never at peace with the decision to have scheduled one in the first place, but I was in a similar situation then that I am now, feeling desperate to have a definite "end in sight" to cling to, and obsessively worrying about how large he was growing on top of everything else.
With this baby, I've been assured many times that the size is running smaller than my other two, and for the sake of my sanity, I'm taking everyone's word on that. I simply can't add the fear of birthing another giant baby to all of my other fears and still function at all.
I don't seem to be having trouble piling on the guilt and self-doubt, however. I want to be one of those zen supermoms who finds tremendous power in the wonder of the natural birth experience. I want to put total trust in my body and my baby and let things progress as they may. Indeed, I had plans to finally go drug-free with this birth; to experience every moment at full strength and know, with certainty, that I could survive it on my own.
But I am not particularly zen right now (quite the opposite), and clearly not particularly brave. The best word to describe me at this point is simply, "defeated." I want to say that my choice is not so selfish, since I've at least given Baby a full 40-week run, since the stress is honestly killing me, and it's not so good for Baby either, since I've proven that I make big babies, and going for any length of time past 40 weeks will only increase the odds of a truly large child, even if that child is measuring "normally" for now. More than that, I want to believe it. But I don't, not really.
In the end, I just feel Lesser. That I need the promise of a definite end date to get through this week at all. That I may need an induction to get me to the end of this pregnancy. That it will mean a totally opposite birth experience than the one I'd pictured, since I fully expect to need an epidural once the Pitocin kicks in.
And oh, how the thought of the Pitocin scares me. That it will create a difficult labor for Raspberry (and for me). That it might cause distress, and lead to a C-section. Could I ever forgive myself for having made the decision, then?
I don't know, but the fact is that I made it. I made it, and I scheduled it, and bright and early on Saturday morning I'll be getting hooked up to the very tubes and medications that promise to finally kick off the beginning of the end.
That is, unless the unexpected happens between then and now. But I'm burying any hope of that, at this point. Disappointment is heavy enough to bear without this crazy load of guilt I'm carrying around.