metaphor

(I am not entirely sure this post required visuals but who can resist the challenge of making an old, sad, almost-on-its-way-to-the-trash shallot look a star)

40 weeks and 5 days: nothing is happening. And I mean really nothing: not a twinge, not a sigh, not a breath of anything even vaguely indicating the onset of labour. I walk on the beach (almost) every day. I do yoga. I meditate. I read fiction. I write non-fiction. I try to pretend I'm not waiting. I wait.

Deep down though, I know we're not there yet. For one thing, the genetics are against me. Isabelle came 12 days late and had to be coaxed out (not too gently either). My brother was born two weeks late. I was born a month late (which taking into account a substantial margin of error probably means two weeks late). My mother was born 10 days late. There is a pattern here.

More importantly though, there is the shallot; which is my metaphor for the 'end-of-the-end' of pregnancy. Here is how it goes: in order to give birth, one must reach a state of complete surrender, a complete ego meltdown. This process resembles somewhat the peeling of a shallot: layer by layer, many tears, no idea how many layers to go, more tears, more layers.

There is relinquishing control, first over when the baby comes, then over how the baby comes, then over life as we know it. There is the meeting with old ghosts, old layers of unresolved grief and anger. There is fear. Fear of small things, then of bigger things, then of huge things. Finally, at the heart of the shallot, there is the ego's worst nightmare: my own death. I believe that once I surrender to that one, let it in, accept its presence, the baby will come.

So, not quite there yet. But peeling on with a steady hand.