Waiting for lightening to strike

I wake up in the middle of the night, miserable with heartburn and needing to pee (again), but also moaning with a painful contraction that started in a dream and transitioned to reality. I want to let my husband know that my contractions are getting stronger; not because I am ready to head to the hospital, but because I want to share my misery with somebody.

As I attempt the difficult turn to his side, I realized, surprised: he is not there.

I find out, the next morning, when I uncover him from under blankets and pillows on the couch, that my snoring has kept him awake. Heck, my snoring wakes me up.

These days, I breath heavily, like a pervert too close for comfort in a public bus, so crammed my lungs have been.

Between carrying thirty more pounds in such a small frame, and mostly in my mid-section, while feeling like my loose pelvis joints are about to give in, and swelling acid from my stomach back in, I also have to manage little feet stuck in my ribs with a little head bopping my bladder. I can literally push his feet away with my hands now.

And this is why I am waiting for lightening to strike. When the baby drops, engaging inside the pelvis and bundling up at a lower chamber, leaving mom's lungs, stomach and heart to their almost normal shape and expansion capabilities, obstetricians will call it (rightely so) lightening.

This baby is still bouncing and as of this moment, hiccuping, letting me know that no, he will not drop yet, which makes my contractions pretty much useless. What's the point of a soft cervix if the baby may not come out that way?

My mother thinks he is just waiting for her arrival, next week. We shall see.