We went to see my Ob/Gyn yet again this morning. He poked and prodded me and announced, "You're not ready. Come back again next Thursday." I am ready, though, more than ready to stop being pregnant and meet my baby. But it would seem that the baby's not in agreement and is planning to stick around at least until her official due date (which is next Saturday). My job now is just to wait until she's good and ready to emerge.
Unfortunately, I'm not the best waiter in the world. Since she's been at term (after 37 weeks), I've been getting impatient for the pregnancy to be done. I've enjoyed my third trimester and have felt healthy, energetic, and even glamorous. But I'd like to stop now.
We saw a brand new baby in the doctor's waiting room today. A tiny, blacked-haired, blue-wrapped boy baby. His head would have fitted nicely in my cupped hand and he had beautiful little hands and feet. I wanted him. I wanted mine. But, I'm taking deep breaths and practicing patience…
Distraction is one good option. I've been reading The Economist from cover to cover every week, as well as writing pages and pages in my diary every day. And I've worked my way through eight or nine books in the last ten days. There's nothing like a greedy bout of binge reading to make the world a better place.
I reread Good Omens, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett's take on the apocalypse, as well as Anansi Boys, Neil Gaiman's story about the trickster god, and was much more amused by both books this time around than the last time through.
And I finally mustered up the courage to read The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. The movie with Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson was so sad that I had never been able to bring myself to read the novel, but I bought a copy last weekend and read it early this week. And I'm glad I did. Kazuo Ishiguro is a fabulous writer.
The book is unexpectedly funny and extremely well-written, which helps take the edge of the tragedy at its heart. But tragedy it is even so. Ishiguro's main character is a masterpiece of repression and the willful suppression of self-awareness. The reader becomes aware of the ruination of his life, the waste, the misplaced loyalty, the missed opportunities. But he is unable, in the end, to confront himself honestly or acknowledge the limitations of the rigid rules he has lived by. It's harrowing stuff, made all the more so because it's so understated.