This morning I’m thinking about how the end of my pregnancy with Maggie is a metaphor for the way she moves about in the world. Pretty much every morning, no matter how much time I give her and prep her for the fact that the bus is indeed coming at 8:14am, just like every other morning, she waits and waits and waits and waits until the very last minute to get ready. No amount of gentle cajoling or reminders gets her to budge. Then she just acts like, “What the hell is your problem? I’m coming!” when I’m anxious and yelling about getting her out the door on time. Just like her birth. She waited and waited and waited and waited until the last possible moment at 42 weeks when they were requiring me to be induced, and then she arrived the night before induction, in less than 20 minutes at the hospital, like, “What the hell is your problem? I was coming!” And she always gets there. There’s a lesson for me in there somewhere about how to help her and myself move through the world. Not sure I’ve grasped the practical realities of it yet.