(This is Producer Aaron hitting the "post" button for Steph, for reasons you'll see below!)
The BABY POOL from the previous blog is officially closed as of the time this blog goes live. Good luck.
It's almost 5am.
5am on... Thursday, I think. I'm not really sure at this point. I'm also not sure if I'll even click publish on this post, to be honest. I'm trying to kill time out here in the living room while the husband gets some much deserved rest.
Speaking of rest, rest assured that this little girl of mine will come out covered in glitter and unicorns singing show tunes. Why? BECAUSE I STARTED HAVING CONTRACTIONS TUESDAY, so I figure that must mean she is extra-awesome for dragging this out, right? More pain, more gain? Bueller?
Tuesday night, the husband and I went to the hospital to visit a friend and his wife. She, at one point, looked at me and asked if I was doing okay. Think about that. Her husband is laid up in a hospital bed with a severe wound from a fully ruptured appendix and she's asking about me. That was my first clue that a) these weren't your normal pre-baby pains and b) I'm not very good at hiding my discomfort.
The hospital may seem like a great place to go into labor, but the reality is you're supposed to do a fair bit of the work at home.
I'll spare you the details, but over these past many, many, many, many hours the husband has tried to talk me into going to the hospital more than once. My answer has been to go for another walk, take another hot shower, and procrastinate. He's not super excited at the prospect of delivering a baby in the house and I can't blame him. But I've seen friends get sent home after a diagnosis of false labor, and I'm not in the mood to get there, get checked in, get hooked up to all the monitors, and then get sent packing 3 hours later.
And, in an important note, when I finally get utterly exhausted and lie down... everything stops (textbook false labor symptom #1 according to both The Google and the nurse I've got on speed dial). When I sleep I get what I can only describe to you as the most glorious 2 hours in the entire world.
Of course, then it all starts over again, but hey...
So, until I hit that magical 5-1-1 (contractions 5 minutes apart, lasting for 1 minute for a duration of 1 hour), the hospital doesn't really want to see my
bloated, grumpy, zitty smiling face, so we wait. And I kill time out here in the living room in an effort to give the husband a much deserved break.
Maybe I'll ask Producer Aaron to publish this for me later today, when I'm at the hospital and cleared for takeoff. We'll see. At the very least, you can bet this is going straight into a file called, "LOOK WHAT YOU PUT YOUR MAMA THROUGH" which I plan to save for little occasions like future arguments over curfews, short skirts, and dating.