Three Days ‘Til Showtime.. or is it?

Let me tell you—this little girl isn’t even earthside yet, and she’s already proving to be just as stubborn as her siblings. We’re three days from the due date, the 16th, but is she showing any signs of clocking out of her cozy little womb? Nope. Not even a hint of an early departure. She’s dug in, feet up, probably sipping on amniotic fluid like it’s a luxury spa retreat.

Meanwhile, my wife is at max capacity, doing her best to stay patient while also sending this child eviction notices on an hourly basis. We talk to her belly, we try all the tricks—walking, vinegary foods, bribery (yes, I have attempted negotiating with my unborn daughter, and no, it has not worked). She is unmoved.

So now, we sit in limbo, staring at the calendar. Will she decide to make her grand entrance this weekend? Will we get that dramatic Honey, it’s time! moment, complete with a chaotic drive to the hospital? Or will she keep us waiting until the 18th, when we might have to induce her stubborn little self into the world? The real wildcard? If she holds out just one extra day, we’ll have a St. Patrick’s Day baby. 🍀

Now, I’m not saying I’d be mad about that—imagine the fun birthday themes, the lifetime of shamrock-covered cakes, the built-in excuse to always celebrate big. But I’d also like my wife to be able to, you know, breathe again. And sleep comfortably. And not have a tiny human practicing jiu-jitsu inside of her at all hours.

So, we wait. Impatiently. Stressed out. Completely at the mercy of a tiny human who isn’t even born yet and is already dictating our lives. Parenthood is wild.

At 39 weeks, my wife is basically a walking eviction notice, and our unborn daughter is treating her ribs like a kickboxing gym. Every time my wife shifts uncomfortably or lets out a sigh, I pause like a deer in headlights. Is it time? Should I grab the bag? Where are my shoes? I swear, I have never been this hyper-aware of human biology in my entire life.

The house is in full-blown baby prep mode. The nursery is ready. The tiny clothes are washed and folded (for now). The hospital bag is packed. And yet, I still feel wildly unprepared—like I studied for the wrong test and now I’m about to wing it. You’d think, having done this before, I’d feel like a seasoned veteran. Nope. Somehow, knowing exactly how chaotic the newborn phase is makes it even more terrifying. Sleep deprivation? Check. Diapers that defy logic? Check. That moment at 3 a.m. where you stare at a screaming baby and think, What do you WANT?!? Also check.

But the difference this time? I’m not doing it alone. My wife and I get to tag-team this adventure. No more late-night panic Googling, no more wondering if I’m doing it right with no one to reassure me. This time, we get to take turns falling asleep in random places and sharing the honor of being puked on. Ah, the romance of parenthood.

And as nervous as I am, I am so incredibly excited. Excited to meet this little girl who already has us wrapped around her tiny, unborn fingers. Excited to watch her big sister and big brother become the protective, loving siblings I know they will be (even if my stepson is still hoping it miraculously is a boy). Excited for those newborn snuggles, even if they come at the cost of my sanity and REM cycles.

So here we go. Three days (or less… or more, because she likes to keep us guessing) until life changes forever—again. We’re ready. Or at least, as ready as any parent can be when facing the reality of diaper blowouts and the mysterious disappearance of baby socks.

Wish us luck. And send coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. ☕️