Things were going too smoothly. Apparently, in all my heartburn-low-back-pain-can-hardly-put-on-my-shoes-and-I-will-never-sleep-again glory, I was just a little too comfortable. Smug, even. Enter, stage left: THE UNIVERSE.
On Friday, ladies and gentleman, there was blood. Of course, if we put on our remembering caps, we may recall that this pregnancy began with blood – like of the you’re-so-not-pregnant! variety. The kind where you may or may not wind up hunched over the kitchen table, ugly crying into your insert-bowl-of-fattening-comfort-food-here while your partner tries to remain stoic in the face of GREAT UNCERTAINTY AND TERROR. The kind that leaves you doubting even the canned implantation bleeding speech of the fertility clinic nurse and the wisdom of the
goons sages on Yahoo! Answers. Because, dammit, it just feels like your
Of course, we all now know that I have literally zero insight into my own body because, bam: pregnant with human baby.
And so on Friday, when, at 30 weeks on the dot, there was blood, well, I was thrown. But this time it was not so much for my panic – though there was that – but more for C’s reaction. For C’s UTTER TERROR. For the wavering in his voice and the you-are-going-to-the-doctor-right-now-and-I-am-cancelling-all-my-afternoon-appointments-immediately defiantness. Of course, by then the bleeding had stopped and I had somehow managed to
white-knuckle my way through coast through five solid hours of work. But the doctor agreed – I
should come in. Just to, you know, make
The short version of the story is that following my first speculum exam in FOREVER AND EVER, AMEN, I was pronounced completely fine. We even played a fun game where the nurse and C squeezed the baby’s foot and we watched his heart rate soar and the nurse complimented me on the non-swollen appearance of my ankles.
Back at home, both relieved, I wanted to know why C was so worried – what was the thing he thought was happening. And then, just like that, out it came: BEDREST. That’s it. That’s what rendered him panicked and shaky. Sure, there was also, earlylaborplacentapreviacatastrophecatastrophecatastrophe. But really, it was just one thing, one thing that he knew, after 11 years of being together, would really screw with me: BEDREST.
Because here’s the thing, dear interwebs. If I’m not active, If I’m sitting too long, if I don’t exercise, if can’t get outside, if I’m stuck in one place for more than seven minutes: I slowly begin to, how do I say this? Lose my ever-loving shit. And C, dear, sweet C, he knows that about me.
(Okay, let’s face it. C knew that his life would be a WAKING NIGHTMARE if I were suddenly confined to the couch for the next ten weeks. He was looking out for his own wellbeing. And, you know, mine and the baby’s. Maybe.)
This is me. On bedrest.
 I’m assuming there’s only one of you, tops.
 Thank you Huffington Post for this
profound piece of hard-hitting journalism.
 Lesson learned: never, ever doubt her.
 Deep insight: I prefer to keep my pants on.
 It’s amazing what passes for “fun” by week 30. I’m guessing my standards will only be lowered further for the next 18 years. Noted.
 I’m blushing. Now if only I could still see my ankles.
 See also when Phil Dunphy explains that Claire is “like a border collie” and needs to get out for a run every day. Yes. That. (And no, this is not some kind of backdoor brag – more an indication that I am probably in need of heavy sedation/years of therapy.)