Day Four - Such a Big Girl Already!

La Pumpuna
... can pull ever so many little sweet faces, including one that looks like a smirk and enchants mummy and daddy. She can poo proper smelly baby poo and needs changing after every feed. She knows just how much milk she needs, and when she's finished feeding, she pulls off those (poor sore) nipples, pulls a little face and rests her little head on top of the breast for a sleepy cuddle. She's coping ever so well with her many lovely visitors - and so far she only wakes once per night to feed, such a clever girl! Only once did she get confused and insisted on latching on to daddy's nipple through his t-shirt, but she was still a little smaller then.

Papi
... continues being a real star supporting mummy when she feeds our little big girl, hauling all the shopping in, cooking lovely dinners and insisting that mummy eat for two by heaping triple portions on her plate. He's shaved his chest so his little big girl won't be tickled too much when snuggling up for daddy cuddles. He changes her nappy like the real star he is.

The washing machine
... does overtime! On pumpunita's first day at home we went through 4 baby outfits, 3 mummy outfits and one daddy outfit. The baby outfits were lost to various degrees of exposure to meconium (black) and baby milk vomit (yellow), as were the mummy outfits, combined with breat milk stains (whitish transparent). The daddy outfit was lost to the general panicked sweating he breaks into when anything happens to his baby, like hickups that shake her entire body (and don't bother her at all). The good thing: Pumpunita's nanna does the washing and the ironing.

Mummy
... excels at mummy cuddles, kissing her baby and gazing at it. Fails at everything else, from being a proper hostess (sorry everybody), to sleeping (unable to stop cuddling or gazing). Not that it matters, daddy and nanna keep the show swinging.

We are so in love with out little Tara Olivia! There! I've given her name away. (A matter of great dispute, but Andy did finally give us his thumbs-up.)

Here's the picture of the day


And as a special bonus, a little video when she was still very very small and not even two days old, what strong lungs she has!

Jose´s Daughter is a Girl

Born on 27.07.2006 at 9.07pm only 2 1/2 hours after my waters were broken (from 3cm to fully dilated in 1 1/2 hours!), on just 'gas and air' and 'vocalisation', i.e. top-of-my-lungs wailing, weighing 2780g.
Our Pumpunita is perfectly healthy and beautiful. We are eternally grateful, overjoyed and somewhat tired.



She looks like a mini version of her father, but where noses are concerned...



At the moment she is sleeping on daddy's knees, and mummy should be trying to get a minute's rest as well!

Countdown

Did I sleep last night? Of course I didn't. Jose didn't. So I'm too tired to discuss names just now, I'm afraid. 12 hours, 30 minutes. Jose has shaved: "I prepared my face to kiss my baby". I've phoned the hospital: Yes I may have breakfast before we come in. 12 hours 28 minutes. Time for dinner and an attempt to sleep. Will I be counting sheep? I don't think so! I can count nappies! Or little well ironed vests. 12 hours 26 minutes. Oh my God.

Five Days Over, or, A Little Poke

I must not believe everything I read on the internet. I must not believe everything I read on the internet. I must not believe everything I read on the internet.
Whoever claimed that membrane sweeps were painful was exaggerating it a bit. Whoever said whole arms had to be shoved in was overdoing it more than just a bit. Uncomfortable, yes, but hey, worse to come. So, after a bit of poking, pushing and digging my maternity notes read as follows:
"Membrane sweep performed. Cervix soft, 1cm long, 1-2cms dilated, posterior. Ceph (?) presentation Station-2. FHHR following examination. IOL booked for Thurs 27.07.06." Not sure what exactly means what but in summary it is saying: All is well on the Southern front, conditions are favourable, and there should be no problems with the induction on Thursday morning. In other words, all being well this baby is OUT & REAL by Thursday night. It might even do its little dippy dive before, judging from the internal state of things!
For now all feels as stable as ever (which may not mean anything as it could start any minute now) but it looks like we know baby's birthday before we even know his/her gender or name. How weird.

Jose is as convinced as ever that it's a girl. I'm a little confused by his constant talk about 'her' and 'my daughter' but still seem to talk more about 'him', my mother says. So should we call Jose's daughter 'gift to him', if it is a girl; and my son 'mine' if it is a boy? That would be Shilo and Ennis (in Hebrew, resp. Greek). But Brad Pitt's daughter is Shilo, and Andy has helpfully (behind my back) turned Ennis into Anus for me - and there I was, thinking that real danger could lie with Pen(n)is... Could I truly let 'mine' down and not only call him a name that can be turned into Anus or Penis, but on top a name that I've picked up from a 'gay cowboy' film, just because I want him to have a special, meaningful name?


More on names tomorrow. I'm starting to feel slightly spooked and nervous and a little scared and MY GOD!!! SO!!! excited I probably won't sleep between now and when I collapse some time on the weekend - plenty time to muse over names, browse German, English and Spanish hitlists, research meanings and check sound effects with Andy who seems to have a special and useful talent that's gone undetected until now. Then again, maybe he's just English and rude enough?

Jose is telling me off for not posting enough pictures. So this one's for Barbara and everyone else who's been kind enough to praise the growth of my magnificent bump. Thanks for pointing it out continually, from up above here it's always looked the same from that magical moment on when I could no longer see my feet!

Four Days Over, or, Pick Your Birth Day

I've observed three interesting psychological phenomenons today. First, I'm now on best friends' terms with scan-man. I seem to have surrendered scepticism and simply trust him and feel protected. We've met 13 times now, he's got this nice way of putting his arm around my shoulder, and I find it very reassuring to know that he's on duty tonight as well as Wednesday night (Alex to Alex's subconscious: TONIGHT!). Never mind the talk about induction. Never mind the 7.45am appointment he's booked for Thursday. We'll ignore that for the time being, I'm too tired to contemplate it just now, I think, and there's still Tuesday and Wednesday, including Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday NIGHT. Such a generous supply of opportunities!
Then there is the phenomenon of group criticism. Go out with my mum and Jose-daddy-to-be and they gang up on me! Crossing the street where the bad red man is on display (There was no car! There so was no car that there probably still isn't now!), boo! Standing too close to the street when actually waiting at traffic lights? Very naughty! Placing a cup of café latte on my tummy? Bad girl! (How hot can milk foam be, through a cup and saucer! Do I have to hit you with it to prove my point?!) I'll be reeducated at 32, and it's so hot and I'm so tired I'll probably give in! Though I have to say it's quite endearing how they herd me in and make me walk on the safe side of side walks, or how they refuse to share the cakes and biscuits I offer them when supplies are limited.
Then there is the phenomenon of surrogate shopping. My mother has taken on the remaining sales, overshops on shoes, and suddenly I no longer feel the urge to buy anything myself (other than peaches that I normally end up having to bin because I buy so many I'm quite unable to keep up with the mold, but peaches are rather affordable). Quite a relief actually.

Back to the subject of choosing birthdays. We now have an induction pending for Thursday. I actually didn't do much choosing there (I trust my friend scan-man now, you see), and, like I said, we still have 2 days and 3 nights before 'the great day', and then there's no guarantee the induction will work on the spot. It can actually still drag on for up to 2 days before the actual birth starts, which then may still take, as i'm told, quite a while. All in all still a time frame of up to potentially six (6) days - any time between now and the end of the month, in short. No news really, then.

Tomorrow (if my subconscious doesn't work and I don't go into labour tonight) I have an appointment with the midwife. She's already promised me, in case that infamous induction was impending, some sort of 'internal examination' that often helps getting things moving. A bit of prodding and poking. My good friend scan-man and my other good friend The Internet filled me in on the details: A membrane sweep consists of sweeping fingers (not mine, I'm afraid) over my cervix, which I fear is not necessarily within easy reach. I'm not sure I'm enthusiastic. Generally I thought the concept of giving birth was that of small family members coming down my, erm, birth canal, not that of large semi-random strangers shoving fingers, hands and/or arms up it?
Natural home birth? A very distant memory...

PS.: That mug stood very still - until baby decided to give it a good old healthy kick, at which point we'd luckily stopped posing for posterity.

Three Day Overdue, or, BORED

Things I did not do today:
I did not practise any of the 40 steps of how to tie a baby sling.
I did not write my address 35 times on the envelopes of the birth announcements that will want sending out some time in the not all too distant future.
I did not do any ironing.
I did not discuss baby names in writing but I'm told by Jose that 'Romy' is not acceptable as, in Spanish, it is the cupboard you put under the sink in the bathroom. 'Antonia', too, is inacceptable as Spanish Antonias are ugly, cross-eyed, and at least 80 years old, I am informed by daddy Jose Antonio.
I did not make the baby's bed.
I did not give birth.

Things I did do today, in that order:
I got really really badly bored and frustrated.
I grew more stretch marks centre-tummy. Then I got a little depressed.
I got my act together, marched into town, had a coffee and got to bump into my boss Janet as a reward. That was NICE. As a result, I cheered up immediately and remembered that there are other lives out there that are less pleasant than mine at present - lives in which people have to go to offices and work, not grow babies and stretch marks! (We will revisit the subject of the relative pleasure of my present life during labour.)
I ate all that Jose put on my plate, including the third helping.
I watched 'Whale Rider' and decided that maybe 'Paikea' is a nice strong name to put on The List. (To be discussed with daddy J.A. He has opinions.)
I got my paperwork out for another visit to scan-man tomorrow at noon (statistically this should be a scary bad news visit since the one a fortnight ago had been reassuring).

But tomorrow is another day, and we still have 13 hours and 11 minutes to that appointment. Who knows, the baby may be (on its way) out by then.

All Quiet on the Southern Front

After an exciting (and painful!) cramp in the middle of the night we've settled back into waiting - all quiet on the southern front. It might be a sign of imminent labour that I didn't feel like going out today... but it might simply have to do with the rain, thunder and lightning that were going on outside. Not quite sure.
I was a little luckier on the showing-off front yesterday. Turns out the exchange of
'So, when's the baby due' - 'Yesterday, actually' is just as enjoyable as the familiar variety 'Tomorrow, actually', if a grammatical oddity. But the novelty is wearing off already. And it's a little uncomfortable speaking to anyone at all when you've left the house not fully realising that your choice of clothing is quite fetching but equally revealing, and your left breast is essentially on full display to anyone who looks a little higher than the bump (which is where you look when you communicate). Dear me. The comment about going out naked was a joke! Trust my subconscious to make it a reality... Is it only on the labour front where my subconscious is failing me? Or am I subconsciously hoping for another few days before my life is transformed?
If I don't go into labour tonight we'll discuss potential names tomorrow. As for today, I'll just spend the rest of the day as bored as the beginning and the middle of it. And don't anyone suggest that washing and ironing were a good remedy against boredom.

PS.: That pain last night HURT. Did I really tick the 'absolutely no drugs' option on every official form?!
PPS.: Boah, wat is dat laaangweilisch.
PPPS.: Accidentally ate an entire bar of choccolate. Boah, wat war dat eeeklisch... Dat is ja soo laangweilisch.

One Day Over, or, STRETCHMARKS!!!

Thank you, Katja; thank you, Barbara, for kindly pretending you did not know my dates and asking me yesterday when the baby was due. Thank you, Uli, your enquiry might have even been authentic! Other than that, nothing much happened. I went into town, walked about and sat in a café with my mum, and NOBODY asked. Nobody, not one soul! It was quite a let down. I must try again today, but somehow it won't be as cool as it would have been yesterday. Unless I take to lying and simply claim the baby was 'due tomorrow' for the next few days, but somehow that's not the same. Maybe it's the weather? My choice of clothing? Should I go out naked? Surely that would attract attention?
But then my newly acquired STRETCHMARKS would be on display, big time, and who'd want to see those! It started yesterday (on due-day, how unfair!) with a white crack down the centre of my tummy, to be joined by a few lightly purplish friends (fiends) to its left this morning (one day after due-day, how doubly unfair!).
Must oil my tummy thrice daily now. Must buy some more raspberry leaf tea and increase consumption. Must go to combat class tonight and do some bouncing. Must have a word with this baby.
Doodle courtesy of Tante Claudia, also slightly affected by the wait. Or the heat.

D-Day (Due-Date)

I'm such a hopeless show-off. Don't ask me how, but yesterday I somehow managed to tell about ten randon strangers that the baby was 'due tomorrow'. Strutting through the very un-British heat proud like a queen and stolz wie Oskar (It's hot hot! But see me? Hugely pregnant with the most beautiful of tummies and out and about I am! Uncomfortable? Weak? Miserable? Phah! Not ME! I'm tough!), I told
3 ladies at the next table at Croques where I was having lunch (they were asking!)
1 man at a market stall (he was asking!)
another 1 person at another market stall (he too was asking!)
1 nurse at nursery when picking up Sonja's kid (she was commenting how loooow the tummy had sunk since the last time she'd seen me, which counts for asking)
another 1 nurse and adjacent mother (who looked impressed and made comments similar to the one above, which too counts for asking)
1 Tesco delivery man (who was, very simply, asking)
"So when is the baby due?"
Alex (proudly glowing): "Tomorrow, actually." (I'm cool! I'm tough! I'm up and about in this heat, and I'm so!! not a whimp!)
And I actually only blushed the first time round!

After the Tesco man, though, Jose locked me in and declared the end of the day. Which was fine by me. I was actually very hot, sticky and exhausted (what a true and proper idiot to go out on a hot day like that, just one day before one's due date!).

If I'm perfectly honest, I can't actually believe I'm having a baby. Lovely tummy missile, little feet poking me in my side, little bottoms (one assumes) building and collapsing pyramides in my middle... all very well - but a BABY??? Was it only yesterday that I claimed I was READY???
Oh dear... not so sure now... but I am sure I'd enjoy walking about town today telling people that the baby is due TODAY. I'm not quite sure how I made everyone ask yesterday, but surely the selfsame sophisticated mechanism would work again? If not, would anyone I haven't spoken to recently mind giving me a call or send a text, pretend they don't know, and innocently ask me when the baby is due then? Andy perhaps? Jennifer? Vanessa? Anyone??

11 hours 48 minutes into due-day and not a sign of pre-labour activities.

Nearly There

One day to D-Day, aka due-date, or rather an exact 13 hours and 25 minutes (let's honour the spirit of the scan machine), and no sign of an intended foetal exodus. Which is fine and entirely within familiy practice - punctuality is not one of the greater strengths of some members of baby's extended family, though mummy and particularly daddy aren't too bad. But baby didn't get its lovely full lips from mum and dad either, and where the nose is concerned I can always blame my maternal grandfather rather than taking the rap myself. Same source for the lips really (Jose! we're having my grandparents' baby!). But I'm not complaining. The weather is stunningly beautiful and I would not want to be locked up in hospital or at home just yet.
Any realistic picture of the last few days would show me either resting (on beds, sofas, inside, outside) or sleeping - I'm in fact so well rested I wake up in the middle of the night all wide awake and ready to get some action going. Which would be, judging from what I've done over the last days, erm, resting. But I'm happy to change that: Nocturnal breastfeeding, here I come! (I do wonder how long my surplus energy will last me - one night? Three if I'm lucky?)
Whatever. Point is, we're ready. Strawberry-picking never happened, but all the shopping is in (baby monitor and reusable cotton diapers off ebay should arrive in the mail any day now), the washing & ironing is done, I've even managed to put my winter clothes away (about time), and where cleaning and dusting is concerned, well, we're into the third round and I'm definately losing interest now. Jose can have his household jobs back now. He's also welcome to do the cleaning of the little bottom. No dusting of baby bottoms though.

Baby's own maternal grandma is arriving tomorrow (same nose, same lips). Nothing much left for me to do other than rubbing my tummy and telling it: Pumpun babes, we're ready, you may come out and prove that doctor wrong now!
One last thing to do though, before I forget: A bit of socialising. One friend for lunch in town, another for coffee. It is supposed to be the hottest day in the history of England. How could I stay home on a day like that!

I've said it before but let's just say it again:
One (1) day to due-date!

PS: Last night I dreamt I was having the baby. It was a beautiful big girl, the birth took five minutes and didn't hurt at all. There was no placenta at the other end of the umbilical cord, though, but another very small baby girl. Possibly not the most realstic of dreams.

Laughing Buddha

A tummy update! Just in case baby decides to stage an exit some time later today, or tonight, or any time now, and sends us into such an excited panic that we forget to get a last impressive bikini shot. From the front it doesn't look like a proper 39 week and 3 day tummy but the side view is a tad more impressive. Jose calls it the "tummy missile", ready and eager to be launched at any moment. If not, I fear, it will just continue dropping lower and lower until it first swallows the bikini bottoms whole, then simply drops off, leaving no sign that it's ever been there at all (other than a generous handfull of cellulite all over my thighs).

Our baby still seems to be rather comfortable inside, doing its little kicking stunts, flinging its legs from right to left and back while I continue my unproportional shopping spree for tiny baby things and other things for tiny babies. I am a lot less comfortable than the baby, I'm sure, and have progressed from waddling duck to ship in stormy waters when braving shops and parks. Although, admittedly, when I don't set sail and stay at home, I'm rather comfortable actually, lounging about on a selection of beds and sofas while being looked after and cooked for (the weekend! A wonderful invention!). The good news is: I've recovered full use of my stomach - the child hangs below - and can eat to my heart's content. Which is rather convenient as Jose continues to monitor how much I eat, and still tries to trick me into eating more. (Guess who'll get the blame for the cellulite once I get to a point where I actually care.)
4 days to due-date.

About José

The other day I was complaining to Jose about the inconvenience of our telephone arrangements. The proper phone lands you with a wireless phone to hold, leaving you with one free hand to do other things (like what? One handed dusting? Scratching your bum or rubbing your tum?). The internet head set frees your hands but ties you to the sofa (where you can do what? Rub your tum stereo? Dust the table two handed?). What I want is a wireless headset! Which, to my great luck, has been invented some time in the past when I wasn't looking. A few hours later, Jose (who should be working on his thesis) knows all about them and has ordered me one, to be delivered soon after the baby.
When he finds me the next day working up a cramp in my left shoulder, peeling sweetcorn off the cob corn by corn (6 cobs in one go, one of my few peculiar but endearing obsessions; pound-a-bowl, who could say no to that very special offer?!) while at the same time trying to catch up on German gossip in a 1-2 hour conversation (ok. Let's be honest: I'm talking to Nirite, so make it a 3 hour conversation), he simply grabs an elastic band and ties the phone to my head. That's the kind of domestic gentleman he is. What am I saying - domestic god.
Same guy who cooks me salmon and brocoli dinners after any long day while telling me to sit on the sofa and rest and breed some more.
Same guy who won't let me clean my sticky juice spillages off the floor and quickly does it himself.
OK, he did laugh at me and ran to take a picture of how silly I looked. And I do! As silly as I would be to think he was not the most wonderful partner and best equipped papi-to-be I have ever come across, or ever will.

For all of you who've started phoning to enquire whether the baby was still in or out yet - still in, and apparently quite comfortably so.
Five days to due-date.

P.S. Note The Nose. Baby's fate.

191 grams

191g is what our little one has put on over the last week. Well done, baby! That's just 9g less than what it should have put on, so now we're looking at about 2450g (instead of the 2900g any statistically minded doctor would like to see it weigh). The placenta is keeping it up as well (well done, me!), all in all enough to make this week's visit to scan-man pleasant. We seem to follow a pattern whereby every second visit the good man feels the need to shock us with visions of c-sections, failing placentas, inductions, or inherent metabolic, genetic and chromosomal problems, only to tell us on the next visit that things are looking a little more positive. Since he's fully booked next week we stand a good chance of not making the next appointment on 24/7, 4 days after the little nose is due.
I ask the crucial question anyway: What was the outcome in cases with similar growth rates that he's observed before? And it turns out that most of them were 'just small babies', though some had down syndrome, and one darling with serious metabolical problems died after only 24 hours. In line with character, he of course states these results in reverse order. In line with character, we of course focus on the 'most of them' part of the message. This will do us for the next weeks, either to baby's birth day, or the next scan.

And even though we've been going on about how little we care about taking baby's pictures home, for even seeing the 4D scans of our offspring after about 10 scan sessions (normal people get TWO! Three at most!), we get all emotional over today's. The nose, says the doctor with authority, is a normal size for a baby, though definately my shape. And such cuddly cheeks! Oh, and those full pouty kissable lips! Can we please have it out to hold and love and kiss those little feet now! But we've got some more waiting to do: The little head is not even engaged yet. Good for our little one. Grow, baby, grow!
10 days to due date.

Close (but not quite IT)

Last Thursday (2 weeks to due date) wasn't nice enough a day to go strawberry picking so instead I found myself sitting snuggly buggly bundeled up with a little girl and a vast number of cuddly lions heaped on my lap, reading a story. When suddenly and without any warning, my lap was flooded with a gush of hot (and rather wet) waters. A little confused, I looked down and right into two very big blue eyes looking back up at me, which somehow told me they knew more about the source of the inundation than I did. Summer just is the perfect season for potty training! Not quite my turn yet then, though the accident was perfectly aimed to give me a rather precise idea of what it is going to feel like when my waters break. Hopefully at Marks & Spencers, not on someone elses sofa - financially far more rewarding. Which reminds me never to leave the house without a second pair of knickers and trousers. And never to sit down on anyone's sofa or in anyone's car without the added security of plastic sheets and old towels.
The tummy meanwhile continues to drop and drop and drop, though it looks like the only body part that's putting on any weight is my bottom, thank you. About time the kid decided to put on some fat and be born. Jose disagrees, and of course he's right. 11 days to due date.

Not Very Funny

This entry is not going to be funny. There is nothing funny about having scan-man remeasure our lovely energetic baby tummy twice, then look at us with puppy dog eyes and pronounce that the baby remains too small. That he can, however, rule out gradual placental failure as the blood flow to the baby remains satisfactory. That at this stage, therefore, the baby will not benefit from an induced labour. In exchange for this pleasant bit of news, he then confronts us with the 'increasing likelihood' that the baby's problems are 'inherent' and potentially 'metabolic, chromosomal or genetic'. Not that I'm quite sure which is which, but they all spell bad news. Of course there is a chance that 'this is just a small baby' but somehow the good man seems to think that this is not the case, although he kindly adds that he really hopes he's wrong. He notes on the baby documents that after delivery, it must be checked over by the paediatrician ASAP, and that blood from the chord must be sent for chromosomal analysis. On that note, we are booked in for yet another scan next week (what for exactly I'm not sure), and sent on our way.
Since I've chosen to be scared into a state of shock - puppy dog eyes do that to me -it's Jose's job to be optimistic and disregard the doctor's suspicions as scientifically unsupportable nonsense. He duly plots all figures in charts, proves that baby has mostly kept growing along its established graphs with the exception of the abdominal circumference, and for good measure goes on to blame me for not eating enough. (But i DO! Anyone who knows me or has ever seen me eat ANYTHING will be able to confirm that it would be most disconcertingly out of character for me not to eat! Loads!)
In numbers: Baby seems to keep growing in length without putting on adequate amounts of fat. As per scan man's machinery, the little dude currently weighs a specific 2259g (it should weigh around 2900g now to fit in with statistics), with a specific error rate of '+/- 334g'. Which is quite a lot.
Also quite a lot is the amount of pasta Jose heaps onto my plate for dinner that night. About three times the portion anyone in their normal minds would consider. And that's before half way through his somewhat smaller portion he pretends to be full and heaps his remaining dinner onto my plate as well. For the rest of this pregnany, I will be questioned every night about what I've eaten in the day, and how much of it. With the exception of weekends when he's around to supervise food intake.
I want this baby out. NOW. So I can check it and make sure that it's all right. Also so that I can decide whether I need to return the yellow or pink baby blanket to GAP (possibly along with the pink bathing suit and babygro) and make some more good use of those sales. Of course, before that happens, I need just another few days to defrost and restock the freezer, do some more washing and ironing (just a little!), and possibly go strawberry picking (I would not insist on cooking jam, just eating a few fresh kilos of strawberrys would be fine as well, possibly during labour).
(Note to Jennifer, who told me off for my liberal interpretation of my doctor's orders to 'potter about' at home or have a walk in the park at best: I would only potter about the strawberry field. Promise.)
Then I'll start looking out for the following signs of an imminent labour and birth:
1. Backache (which is not directly related to having been pottering about village fetes, country fairs or strawberry fields for hours)
2. A 'runny tummy' (as Sonja so elegantly puts it) - diarrhoea (which mustn't be directly related to having eaten four peaches and two mangoes just because they were so sweet and juicy and I got greedy, or because Jose was watching)
3. The inexplicable desire to potter about nowhere but at home (Inexplicable indeed. At any rate, should this happen, I must get myself into town immediately and start hanging out at Marks & Spencers. I'm told that if my waters break at M&S, I'll be presented with tons of vouchers for baby stuff. Not that I need any more baby stuff just now but vouchers are great things to have, much cooler than even the sales themselves).
For now, none of the above is happening, although we are in week 38 tomorrow and officially 'full term'. But it could be any day now! It could be another 2-4 weeks as well if our baby decides it won't want out yet, now that there won't be an induction. This baby really is full of surprises, not just its gender and the size of its nose! Or, before I forget, potential metabolic, chromosomal or genetic problems.