Tuesday we were in the waiting area at the bank. “Highlights” magazine, it turns out is less than entertaining for the 2-4 year old set. One of the bank associates, a tall stately woman with a perfect pedicure and black patent stilletos, came over to chat. She reported that she loves children and having none of her own, spends her motherly energy in doting on a pair of nieces.

She asked my due date and when I answered “tomorrow” a look of sheer terror came over her lovely face. “Are you feeling anything?” she questioned. The channel cocktail ring on her hand stood out from her finger as she tensed with worry. “No, not at the moment,” I told her. If that relaxed her at all the reprieve of her stress was not long lived. Only a breath passed before the follow up question, “But you have?” “Oh, sure” I told her, “things have been going on for weeks now.” I didn’t dare say the word out loud “contractions” I thought it might push her over the edge.
“Don’t worry,” I said “I’m not going to up and have the baby here in the bank.” “Oh, please don’t” she responded, her tension finally giving way.
We chatted for a few more minutes until it was time for us to leave. As we were going she asked, “What will you do if the baby doesn’t come tomorrow? Go the the hospital and they’ll get the baby out?” “No, no,” I said. “He’ll come”
Friday’s here now and the full moon of my belly still, somehow waxing. As I, (we) wait for the shift that will see it through from full to waining gibbous, I continue to reassure, “He’ll come.”

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