Tomorrow morning we — the Lovely One, and myself — will set off for the maternity clinic. Yoghurt-Moghurt was due on Sunday according to the Hospital’s calculations. We think she’s due at the end of the week, but we’re no experts, we were only there at the conception, so who are we to know? Yoghurt-Moghurt, as far as we can ascertain, is quite comfortable where she is, and in no hurry.
All this then boils down to the fact that the Hospital staff have decided that birth will be induced tomorrow. While the Lovely One has to arrive at 8:30, in all probability, she will be kept waiting for about 4 hours while they treat a backlog of other ladies dropping babies in all the available labour rooms. It happens like that. Especially when they tell you to come early having eaten only a light breakfast. And, following the miscarriage, we’re a bit wary, and inclined to blindly follow all the instructions that Hospital staff give us. To the letter. So far they haven’t pushed their luck and had us practise ballroom dancing, or worse. Although they did suggest making love as means of ‘naturally’ inducing childbirth. [And believe me, it doesn’t work.]
But… and here it comes. I will be postponing this week’s story. For the most irrational reasons. Here’s why.
It is a yucky story. It is my worse one of the series. Not in the writing as I’m not sure that I’m a good impartial judge of that. But in the subject matter. And for some weird, superstitious reason, and just in case anything does go amiss, ‘cos, you know, that’s life. We know, we’ve scraped up against that a couple of times already: first for the Wombat; and then before Yoghurt-Moghurt came along. Just in case, I don’t want that story up and out there. It’s that sort of story.
Let’s get tomorrow over with. Let me cuddle Yoghurt-Moghurt, and reassure the Lovely One, and then I’ll see about posting the story.
See you then.
Posted: Monday, 3rd May, 2010blog comments powered by Disqus