Updated: Jan. 15, 2021
Originally Published: May 6, 2019
I can pinpoint the moment I conceived my first child — it was a cozy December evening, right under the Christmas tree. I had just convinced my (then) partner that starting a family would be a great idea, despite my initial belief that it would take time. My biological clock was ticking, and we both envisioned a larger family.
To our surprise, one attempt was all it took, and soon I was filled with excitement as I stepped into my OBGYN’s office, cradling my belly. She announced my due date: September 6th. Perfect! I couldn’t wait to start planning.
As the months rolled by, I indulged in endless cravings, felt the surge of pregnancy hormones, and eagerly awaited the moment we’d learn the sex of our baby. Once I found out we were having a boy, I dashed out to buy striped outfits, adorable Converse sneakers, and all the plush toys I could find—essentials, of course!
I painted the nursery, set up the crib, and after my baby shower, I washed every tiny piece of clothing with pure joy. My belly and breasts grew, and I reveled in showcasing my maternity outfits. When strangers asked about my due date, I proudly declared, “September 6th!” I loved being pregnant and chatting about my future child, convinced everything would unfold as planned.
My vision was to have him home, nestled in his bassinet, while I prepared our home for fall, lighting Spiced Cider candles as the leaves danced outside. Family was set to visit the weekend after Labor Day, and I dreamed of wearing my new fall jeans while baking cookies shaped like leaves.
But as the days dragged on and my due date came and went, I thought, Okay, he’s just a few days late—no big deal. Then the calls started pouring in. Friends and family wanted to know when I’d have the baby, and I found myself avoiding the phone. I indulged in Doritos and cheese sticks dipped in ice cream, figuring I might as well enjoy this never-ending pregnancy.
Every time I stood, sneezed, or coughed, I couldn’t help but have a little accident. I tried spicy foods, flirted with my partner nightly, and even called him during work, begging him to come home and help me coax our little one out. We tried every position imaginable, and I couldn’t shake the thought that maybe our antics were scaring the baby into hiding.
I took long walks, convinced that movement would bring on labor. After all, a thousand people swore it worked for them. So I waddled along, intent on doing all the right things. By September 16, I found myself sobbing in the bathtub. I was so uncomfortable that sleep was elusive. I was up every five minutes to pee and considered adult diapers. My heartburn raged, and I was on month four of struggling to breathe through my nose due to pregnancy rhinitis. I had wiped out every store’s supply of nasal strips. I was exhausted, uncomfortable, and DONE.
The crispness of fall was in the air, yet I felt like a furnace. On September 18, I stepped out of the shower and spotted frost on the ground. I walked onto my deck, naked, desperate for relief from the relentless hot flashes. I didn’t care who saw me; my belly and breasts obscured everything else.
Despite all the advice, comfort was a myth when you’re overdue. I went from eagerly sharing news of my pregnancy to feeling hostile toward anyone who asked if I was having twins. I took my phone off the hook, daydreaming about confronting my doctor if he told me one more time that I could go “any day.” Any day felt like a lifetime away. I was dilated, had lost my mucus plug, and felt a head wedged between my legs, yet nothing was happening.
On September 19—almost TWO WEEKS past my due date—I had an appointment. During our morning stroll, I told my baby it was time to come out. I was done carrying him. I saw my doctor and declared, “I need to have this baby now.” A few hours later, I was hooked up to Pitocin, and my water broke.
Being overdue not only heightens anxiety and emotions but also takes a toll on your body. No one wants to remain pregnant longer than necessary, even if the initial months are enjoyable. Statistically, about 40 percent of women experience this extended wait, and 5 percent endure the agony of being two weeks overdue. While there may be no clear reason for a baby’s delay, being born after 40 weeks is rarely harmful. However, doctors will monitor to ensure the placenta is functioning well, the baby is not stressed, and the amniotic fluid levels are healthy. This is why many healthcare professionals recommend inducing labor between the 41st and 42nd week.
If your little one is unwilling to budge, it can feel unbearably uncomfortable, and the incessant questioning can be maddening. Having been through it, I advise you to embrace the sympathy you receive from others; it’s something you can remind your child about when they’re older and owe you a few favors. I still jokingly remind my 15-year-old that he certainly put me through hell that last week of waiting!
If you’re on a similar journey and want to learn more about home insemination, check out resources like this one. For more insights on pregnancy, visit this excellent resource. And if you’re considering a more hands-on approach, the Cryobaby at-home insemination kit is a great option.
In summary, navigating the world of overdue pregnancies is no walk in the park. The anticipation can morph into frustration as the days drag on, but remember that you’re not alone in this experience.
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