dress rehearsal, 35 weeks

Well. It happened.

Our first only? totally unnecessary, could have been avoided, FREAK OUT FALSE ALARM trip to labor and delivery <checks that off pregnancy bucket list>.

Mark your calendars folks. It is officially, on. And by on, I mean, you know, very much off. Cervix is closed, contractions are distinctly of the Toni Braxton variety, heartburn is unrelenting!, business as usual.

Really, it started earlier this week. I had a few days of light bleeding –spotting even. Panty-liner nonsense. Sure, it was mildly alarming the first time, when it happened about five weeks ago. But after some confident reassurance from the OB and a more-painful-than-usual pelvic, I kind of shrugged my shoulders and moved on with my day.

Which is why I didn’t think much of it when it happened again a few times this week[1].

But this time it wasn’t just bleeding. There was also something else. Pain. Intermittently. Sometimes when I was walking, sometimes when I was sitting, sometimes when I had to pee, sometimes in the middle of the night. Pain like a pulling, a tightening; acute sparks of… a contraction? Or also maybe like… a UTI[2]? Err? I’ll buy a vowel? What can I say. Doctors LOVE patients like me, what with my completely non specific symptoms and inability to rate anything on a pain scale without incredibly tedious consternation. <C places palm to forehead, exasperated>.

So, today, when the pain intensified, and armed with my law degree and the wisdom of Dr. Google, I did the only rational thing I could think of: I took matters into my own hands. For just $11.99, it was me and my trusty CVS brand UTI test sticks[3] against the world!

Spoiler alert: the at-home UTI test was positive. Like, strong positive. I weighed my options. Yes, I am smug, see supra, but at 35 weeks, waiting until my next OB visit on Wednesday still seemed rather imprudent. So I called.

An hour later, C and I were sitting in labor and delivery, having signed off on release forms that named both me and my unborn child as patients. The nurse explained, “when it says relationship to patient, you write mother”. Ahem. Noted. <Eyes wide with disbelief>.

I’m not sure exactly how to write about the rest of this experience. First there’s the easy part: after one urine sample, two separate rounds of a fetal heart monitor and a contraction monitor, two exceptionally saccharine hits of cranberry juice “Suncups[4]”, one astonishingly-painful-let’s-please-not-do-that-again-anytime-soon examination of my cervix, one grainy ultrasound – Look ma, my knee! And, bonus, my tibia! – plus an introduction to “baby practice breathing[5]”, and a partridge in a pear tree! we were finally cleared to go home. No UTI[6], no preterm labor, hakuna matata. Except, total-and-complete-embarrassment-at-having-called-in-the-first-place. And, also, C and I can never have those 3 hours of our life back. At least I got this photo?

Absolutely not in labor.

But there’s also another part of the experience that I wasn’t quite expecting. I’d never been to the labor and delivery floor until today. Never seen baby bassinets wheeled up and down the hall. Never been hooked up to a device that measures my contractions, never had to don a stylin’ back entry gown. And, for that matter, C has never had to wear a sticker anointing him as a permitted visitor, a baby daddy. It was very, ahem, real.

At the same time, in the last couple weeks, I have felt more pregnant than ever[7]. Working out has been more arduous, keeping up long days at work more tiring, sleeping through the night less possible. I had almost begun to believe I was getting there – that, as C has begun predicting, this little chicken might arrive earlier than expected. Because, honestly, <looks down at belly, can no longer see feet, begins to feel nauseated without head in upright position> five more everloving weeks of this?

But today, well, today just smacked of reality. I am totally not ready for this. Five more weeks – give or take – will be, ahem, JUST FINE, THANK YOU.

Also, this: The irony is not lost on me that our child birthing class is, of all days, tomorrow.

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[1] GAH. Seriously, what kind of former infertile am I? I’m becoming positively SMUG. Send pessimism, terror and a heavy dose of unceasing anxiety. Pleaseandthankyou.

[2] Somehow I have made it 30 years without one. So actually, I have no idea what they feel like. <knocks on literally every piece of wood, wood laminate, faux wood, wood finishing, and all wood like substances within a 3 mile radius>.

[3] Test sticks. Shades of pregnancy testing. <Gulp>.

[4] The “science” behind whether the chugging of high fructose corn syrup encourages fetal movement seems dubious at best. In any case, nothing makes me feel like I’m at a hospital like drinking through a plastic straw.

Not the kind of cocktail I was hoping for.

[5] Including the unexpected and SUPER EXCITING 10 minutes of the doctor standing, motionless, blank-eyed and staring at the ultrasound until I cleared my throat to inquire, as politely as possible, what the eff was going on and she quietly mentioned to me that we begin to worry if the baby isn’t practice breathing after 30 minutes…<long pause>. (He’s fine. A few minutes later, he did as he was told and put on a nice show of inhaling amniotic fluid. Attaboy!)

[6] Surprise! False positives with at home kits are not uncommon. Especially in pregnant ladies. Grrreat.

[7] And, apparently, more and more prone toward stating the obvious.

Ch-ch-ch-changes! 34 weeks, 4 days

I think I’ll remember this week as the week things changed. The week when it dawned on me, all of a sudden, and rather late in the proverbial game, all things considered, that I was going to, like, you know, birth this baby. As in, next month.

Part of it was the symptoms, the godforsaken everloving, unrelenting SYMPTOMS. Not that they haven’t been here before. But there’s been something about this week – a ratcheting up, an intensity, a this-shit-just-got-real ness, never before felt.

• Heartburn: 24/7
• Baby somersaults: all the freakin time[1]
• Baby hiccups: on the regular
• That which shall not be named[2]: happening and also, gross
• Sleep: a fleeting memory, a relic of the past
• Toni Braxtons[3]: in a way that left C panicked last night at the dinner table and furiously scribbling a list of items to pack in my totally-premature-oh-my-goodness-we-have-six-entire-weeks-left hospital bag
• Ability to get out of bed without engaging in a convoluted series of roll-tuck-elbow-hoist maneuvers generally reserved for the very fat and the very old: limited
• Socks: shockingly difficult to put on

Of course, it’s not just physical[4]. My appointments with the OB are now every two weeks, instead of every four. At our most recent appointment, in addition to printing us a (pretty obscure and needless to say, neither wanted nor requested) photograph of our son’s scrotum[5], the nurse checked the head position – downward and, excuse me while I slip into what I believe is medical jargon: ready to roll! We also discussed circumcision (yup), who will be with me in the room (C) and our feelings about the all consuming, often articulated, rarely followed, BIRTH PLAN (more on that soon).

What can I say you guys, this is happening. It’s happening in the way that I feel like my body is distinctly no longer my own – yes, my stomach has been rounder and rounder, my thigh gap[6] less and less existent and my waddle more and more pronounced – but until this week, I still felt, more or less, between moments of throwing-up-while-putting-on-my-shoes, like me. And now? Now I feel like a vessel. A uterus for the greater good. A carrier pigeon with an important delivery (I’ve gone too far).

It’s not something I can entirely articulate. See supra, obviously. But it’s there. It’s different. It’s I-could-actually-have-this-baby-right-now-and-things-might-actually-be-okay (plus/minus NICU).

Which of course, brings us back to where I started this rambling bullet pointed post: Birth. Labor. Basically, UTTER TERROR. A discussion of which will have to wait until next time. Now excuse me while I figure out how to get up off this couch in the absence of some kind of hydraulic lift.

34 weeks and making a cameo as what I will fondly refer to as, "Pregnancy Fitness Barbie."
Minus the cleavage.
(Note to future self: spandex is never as flattering as you might lead yourself to believe).

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[1] Imagine if you put a live and rather energetic chicken in a paper bag, closed the paper bag, and then encouraged the chicken to try to get out. I am pretty sure my son is that chicken. We’re hoping ultrasound can soon confirm. (ProTip: Google searching for YouTube videos of “chicken in a paper bag” is much more likely to turn up hits like “5 Minutes Cooking with Auntie Nora” and “A Recipe for Chicken Waikiki” than the video you might have imagined in your head). Also, this. What on earth?

[2] But in all seriousness, I cannot say this thing out loud. Because, mature adult, etc.

[3] In our household we call Braxton-Hicks contractions “Toni Braxtons.” What can I say, we like to live on the edge.

[4] Immediately upon writing that, this song got stuck in my head for, oh, approximately forever. Oh, Olivia, you slay me!

[5] <Presently contemplating if, when and how to torment him with this, while counterbalancing such considerations against the exorbitant cost of hourly therapy>. Thoughts from the group?

[6] Preach on, sisterfriend!