Well folks, I’m here to bring you another pleasant addition of Seriously, Sara, Wait a Couple Minutes Before You Blow Up Your OB’s Phone. We are less than seven weeks out from my due date. I’m still not ready, house-wise, and probably won’t be for two more weeks. And every time I breathe, I wonder if I am going into labor. Sound and healthy minds over here, everybody!
It is insane to me how trigger happy I am with the HONEY!GrabTheHospitalBag-ness. The day I actually go into labor, I am seriously doubting whether I, myself, will even take myself seriously. “Come on, self. You’re being dramatic. It’s just your cervix dilating. Chill.” After last night, I made Adam promise that unless I have the 5-1-1 contractions, or am standing in an actual puddle of amniotic fluid, or there is a baby head coming out of my bits, to make me wait an hour before I call my doctor.
I was sitting down, chopping veggies for dinner last night, and I stood up to put all the stuff in a pot and make magic happen. And when I stood up, I felt all sorts of damp. So my first thought was “Really, self, did you just pee yourself?” and my second thought was “Maybe I am having the slowest water-break in history and I will be on the news??” For some reason, my second thought trumped the shit out of my first one, and I ran with it. I mean, it’s the news, guys.
Then I’m all, “Maybe I’m jumping the gun here a teeny bit. I’ll finish making dinner and see what happens.” That lasted all of three minutes. I called Adam at work and told him that maybe I’m peeing my pants, maybe I’m having our baby. Who knows? Come home. Stop for sandwiches on your way. And then I go back to cooking dinner, feeling very calm and then feeling very cool because I am totally going into labor and maybe it won’t be that bad if I am this calm? My first sign should have been that I have known me for 26 years. I am not even that calm when I am about to extract a splinter from my finger. No way I would ever be remotely below the Tom Cruise side of sane if my body was getting ready to expel a human out of it.
Somewhere in there, I called the hospital, and let me just say that I always call the hospital thinking that, of course they are only going to bring me in if they’re pretty sure I’m going into labor. And I assume that when I say something like, “I don’t know if I peed or if my water broke a really tiny bit,” that the doctor is going to say something like, “Uh, go check, stupid.” But they don’t do that. They just say to come on down to Labor and Delivery, because they don’t want me to sue them. So the one-hour rule has been put into action in this household, because a couple minutes after I called, I was all like, “Dammit, it was probably just pee.” And I still had to go in because of the just-in-caseness.
We get to the hospital, and we are in the same triage room I’ve been in before. And I’m feeling like a loon because I’ve been to Labor and Delivery enough that I am recycling triage rooms. I tell the nurse that I thought my water was breaking really slow, but that I probably peed. But I still had to stay for all the just-in-caseness. Pee in a cup, get in the gown, strap on some belly monitors, yada yada. Then they had to do a pelvic exam and test me for amniotic fluid. Guess what the lady that was all up in my bits said, guys?
“Yea, you probably just peed.”
All of this added up to, sometimes pregnant ladies pee. So there’s some more fluids to look forward to, guys. The kind you stopped getting on yourself by the time you were three. Or in some cases, by the time you stopped binge-drinking in college. They’re back. They’re making you do more laundry. And they’re making you tell the whole internet about how you are 26 years old and you peed in your pants.