With every passing day that there is still a person in my uterus, this blog is probably going to get exponentially bitchier. Especially when the emails about which fruits match my baby in size are also about how all my baby is doing is getting fat and not doing anything important, like growing a kidney. As he gets fat, I get fat, and I am not appreciating this on top of the kicks to my ribs and the head-butts to my cervix. Rude.
Yesterday was my first experience with actual false labor. Not the false-false labor that was just peeing my pants and stuff. I don’t know which is worse. Thinking it is finally time to get this show on the road, and then finding out that nope, you’re doomed to more time waddling around the world and wearing stretchy pants. Or feeling like your insides are tearing apart and that your ribs are going to break, for no gotdamn reason at all, other than that your body is being a complete butthole and screwing with you for funsies.
Adam was playing frisbee when my contractions started, and they weren’t too awful in the very beginning. He came home as they were getting worse, and I sent him to the grocery store while I was in what I thought was early labor. By the time he got back, I was in some serious pain. Scary-ass demon-fetus pain and I was hugely terrified that I was just a couple hours in and I already felt this awful. Then a super enormous ball of angry shit came from hell itself and manifested as another contraction. Adam tried to get me to stand up and lean into him through it, and I turned into a snarling ball of DON’T TOUCH ME.
Bless his heart, I feel like I need to get Adam a card or a gift certificate to somewhere that they don’t allow pregnant ladies for after I have the baby. He’s got his work cut out for him. The terrible, awful, no good, really bad contraction finally passed after I yelled out into the universe about it lasting so long, and Adam was able to get me up and leaning on him. Poof, I felt better. But I thought it was just the lull between contractions. So I decided to prepare because this baby was coming, I knew it.
I got a shower so I wouldn’t feel like a dirt ball going into the hospital. And I still felt fine. I decided to pluck my eyebrows because there would be pictures after I gave birth in a few hours and I needed to make sure there were two separate ones. And I still felt fine. I laid on my bed and watched Netflix with Adam because the next contraction had to be coming any minute. But, it never did.
We just put a robot on Mars. And not even like “Hey robot, land on Mars. Mars is the bullseye.” We picked out a specific spot on Mars, and we landed there. That is infreakingcredible. But we can’t tell a lady “Get ready because on such and such day, you’re gonna push a baby out of you.” My due date is a guesstimate. I was guesstimating when I was in elementary school. Get your shit together, Science. Someone give me the exact date, so I can go, “I know you’re trying to trick me, stupid body, but I’m not going to fall for that!”
It’s going to be awesome when I can update this blog and be all like, “Hey dudes. Just sitting on some ice packs because I pushed out a human!” Until then, I’m just going to be pissy and impatient and eating ice cream sandwiches. I have earned all the ice cream sandwiches in the world by now, so I don’t care what my OB says. I’m eating them all.
Send lots of cervix-softening and water-breaking thoughts, guys. And then send me a beer.