February 22, 1988

There are dates in your life that will forever carry a certain significance. Of course, there is my birthday which I believe should be treated like a national holiday. July 28. Learn it, live it, love it, gimme lots of great chit. There was the day I got married. Even though I divorced the bastard, the wedding anniversary remains nostalgic. And the birthday of each of my kids always makes me a little weapy as I see how much they've grown over the years.

And then there is their due dates.

Yesterday was the due date of my first child. I don't quite get why I, and probably every other woman on the face of the earth, clings so dearly to that date. That arbitrary date, practically picked out of thin air, based on when you recall the last day of your menstrual cycle. I was told in June that I was due to deliver around... AROUND... February 22. And I held to that date like it was etched in gold.

Any woman who has carried past their 35th week of pregnancy can tell you, by that time you are DONE being pregnant. All the novelty is gone, the glowing doesn't matter, and your ankles swell. Like a prisoner in a dungeon you tick off the days until your release. The day you can stop wearing "fat clothes". The day toes stop testing the plyability of your bladder and your spleen can be pried off your spine.

Two weeks before the due date a new mentality sweeps over the expectant mother - "any time now." Bags are checked and rechecked. Meals are prepared and frozen. The house is kept incredibly clean and the car never has less than a half tank of gas.

And so we waited.

And waited.

February 22, 1988 arrived and still no baby, but surely Little Bart would be in our arms within a matter of hours.

February 23 arrived and still no baby. Mom and my husband took me out to eat. As we waited for our seat, a pair of elderly women gawked at my protuding belly and observed "honey, you've dropped!"

WHAT THE HELL? How does anyone get off telling an absolute stranger the medical state of her pregnancy? Wisely the old chicks kept their hands to themselves. I was to the point that if one more person reached out to touch me I was gunna rip their arm out! I had already had enough stranger hands pet my belly, including some really creepy guy at the mall that practically gave me an exam reserved for my gyno.

So then they ask when I was due. Rather blandly, I replied "yesterday."

I swear their eyes darted in all directions as they mentally went through a checklist for boiling water, clean sheets and scissors in case they had to do an emergency delivery right there in the middle of the restaurant.

No, no, this baby was firmly holding onto my intestines and not about to come out any time soon.

Eight days had passed since my due date. OVER a week. I was seriously looking at being induced or having a C-section - neither of which was high on my wish list.

Go look at a 1988 calendar. It happened to be leap year.

Somehow I skimmed past February 29th and started the first signs of labor on March 1st. So this was it. I had a doctor appointment in the morning which was rather pointless as I was told the signs and symptoms of labor and when to go to the hospital. To kill a little time I strolled through a department store. A baby seat caught my eye and I picked it up and tried to adjust the handle. But the damn thing would not budge. GRRRRRRRRR. Yes, this is exactly what a woman holding a baby in one arm needs, a contraption that requires fourteen hands to dislodge. I couldn't get that thing out of my hands fast enough.

Okay, I tossed it back into the display.

And then every single employee surrounded me asking if I needed any help. No. I needed help five minutes ago as I was investigating this death trap, but now I'm not interested. Your security cameras would serve better as customer service cameras so you can ward off potentially upset customers who shouldn't touch your GD precious displays of unuseful baby gear.

And then I got in the car and balled my eyes out.

I never cry.

Ever.

Hormones are hell.

And the day drug on. And on. Finally that night when my contractions were five minutes apart I promptly went to the hospital where I was told that I wasn't in full labor and I should walk around for awhile to encourage the progression. After several hours of pointless walking I was told to go home, only to return when the contractions are "really bad."

TEN PM the following night, on March 2nd, I delivered my daughter. NINE DAYS after her due date.

I resent February 22nd.

Likewise, I detest June 10th. My second child was due the following year on June 10th. Again I pegged my hopes and dreams on that special day. And again the due date came and went with no baby. And again I ticked off the days and hours and minutes until this lump would no longer do his slow motion stretch inside my ribcage. This child was a little more prompt than his sister as he arrived SEVEN days late.

Their brother, on the other hand, had completely different plans and decided to grace us with his presence three weeks early.

I think giving due dates to pregnant women should be outlawed. Never has a child arrived on their designated due date. Well, okay, I'm sure a few oddball babies do what is expected of them, but they turn out to be freaks living in their mothers' basements after the age of 25. The rest of the world is populated by babies who arrive according to their own internal clocks, not some date picked off a postcard wheel carried by every obstetric doctor, nurse and hallway flunkie.

And if you don't want your head to be ripped off my some hormone enraged woman DO NOT ask when her due date is, or speculate that she's been pregnant FOREVER. Or worse yet, that the baby is setting up house keeping and is NEVER coming out.

Have I ever told you how much I hate February 22nd?

Appealing to an 8 year old's Toilet Humor

Help him study for his spelling test and when he spells "unhappiness" point out that he said peepee. The child will erupt into a fit of giggles and any time he tries to spell "unhappiness" ever again.