I’ve written twice before about the tradition of taking one’s sweet time in our little family of (still) two. It seems the soon-to-be-third member of our family is taking the tradition to heart as well.
I’m currently sitting at four days past my due date, with still no signs of Thumper’s arrival on the horizon. The thing is, I would be fine with that, if I didn’t have another appointment with my OB looming on Tuesday, one where I’m afraid I’ll be guilted into being induced. Even though I know better.
I know that there’s no emergency here. That she’s passed both NST’s so far with flying colors. That, other than in the mind of Dr. K, this pregnancy is not high-risk. I don’t have gestational diabetes or high blood pressure. As far as anyone can tell, there’s no harm in letting Thumper stay a few more days in the cozy–albeit shrinking–space of my uterus. I know, too, that induction comes with its own risks. Higher rates of C-section; more intense and painful contractions, which pose a risk of decreasing baby’s heart rate; and increased use of epidural, which, in some cases, can actually prolong labor.
Still, the nurse who hooked me up to the monitor for our latest NST, and even my own husband (the traitor!) are convinced I’ll likely have to be induced at some point.
So, this weekend, Hubby and I decided to take matters into our own hands. Sex on Friday, while it did lead–I’m sure–to a flood of oxytocin, did not result in a single contraction. Same goes for nipple stimulation yesterday. But I’ll keep trying. Because, while letting Thumper come in her own time is the best option, milking myself is the much-preferred alternative to the Pitocin I fear is going to be forced on me any day now.