At 7AM I gasped, then moaned and rolled to my side. For the first time ever, a contraction had woken me up. I wanted to feel hopeful, but I couldn't find the ability. I went back to sleep and ignored them again when I woke up for real and showered and got ready for church. I thought about how perfect it would be.
Though I'm not due until December 30th (January 4th if you ask my OB), last month I arbitrarily chose December 17th as the desired birthdate of my daughter. And I had just spent two-thirds of a lovely weekend catching up with my husband. We went on a date Friday night, back to the old standby, the location of our first date. As I struggled to find something to wear, I complained to Tara over the phone. "Let me tell you how difficult it is to look cute when you're 9 months pregnant. My main goal now is to keep the belly covered." She laughed sympathetically. A few minutes later I found a low cut top that made use of my pregnancy-enhanced assets. "I stand corrected," I told Tara, "cleavage still works." So I laughed at dinner when The Boy said, "I love that you're 9 months pregnant and I still can't take my eyes off of you." And I loved it too. We'd had company in the form of my mother-in-law for the last week and hadn't been able to catch up. So Friday was sublime.
Days earlier, he had given me a gift certificate for breakfast in bed and three TiVo shows of my choice (also in bed), that he made good on Saturday morning. We spent the whole day and evening together, so I was feeling pretty good about feeling bad this morning. But not good enough to trust it.
In church I wasn't always able to sing some of my favorite Christmas carols; I sat down and breathed deeply. "You need to be tracking them, baby," The Boy whispered, handing me a slip of paper. I discreetly took note of the contractions, still not trusting them. After church we met friends at a sports bar, having changed into Saints jerseys in the car. By halftime, Jenn squealed and my list of contractions spanned nearly four hours and listed times no more than 6 minutes apart. We decided to call the doctor. At home we calmly loaded everything up, divided and conquered last minute issues.
At the hospital, I was disappointed by my lack of progress. Once I was lying down, the contractions felt much less severe. "Early labor," they shrugged. They said it was normal. Did not make me feel stupid. Hours later, as I lay on my couch with more contractions, my OB called to check in.
"It's not unusual for early labor for first babies to take 14-16 hours," she said. I sighed. So I'm drinking lots of water and resting on the couch, contemplating whether I'll work tomorrow, grateful for the last couple days of quiet time together before everything changes-- for the better, for good.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Just Nod if You Can Hear Me
"Your crickets are talking," The Boy said the other day over the phone. Despite being my biggest cheerleader, he's also one of the biggest slackers among those who have read anything I've written. So if he's complaining, you know it's bad.
How I've missed you! So much to update. Since last I was here, I've been everywhere. I am nearly 38 weeks along in the incubation of my child, whom I have come to believe may actually be doing Pilates in the womb. In layman's terms: She's kicking the crap out of me. I am getting anxious for her birth, the least romantic reason being I'm sick and tired of being pregnant! "How do you feel," is the most common question I'm asked, and I feel bad answering it. Honestly? My back is killing me; I pee several times in the middle of the night; I have contractions all the time, consistently and progressively closer together all day long, and then they just stop. No progress. And don't even ask about my last appointment. After a few rough days and rougher nights, I dragged myself to the OB, hopeful for news that included the word "centimeters." She said, at 37 weeks, there was no need to check.
"Most babies are born between 38 and 41 weeks," she explained. I was unsure why this mattered; I just needed a little something for the effort. Needed to be reminded I would not be pregnant forever-- that progress, however slowly, was being made. But it was not in the cards. I cried and called Amber and told her I'm never having a baby or wearing jeans that have a button on them ever again. I've been a little emotional.
All of this is true, yes, but I'm also working hard to relish the good things about the now. We spent a long weekend in November in Charleston for a friend's gorgeous wedding; spent lots of time with Edes and Tara, which was awesome. One last visit before I'm officially a mother, and one last plane ride and exploratory mini-vacation with The Boy before we add another title to our list. I teared up one night over a giggly pizza dinner for two. "I love that we're buddies and lovers," I told him. "But I'm nervous that once we add parents to the list, we won't be lovers anymore."
"No," he replied, "We will make sure we are all three. But no more. We can't be anymore than three."
A couple weeks later, we ventured to Connecticut for another last-- the last visit without the baby. I worried about raucous nights under the rationalization that it was the "last" time, but was pleasantly surprised with movies on the couch, an extravagant wedding we were all invited to that was a blast, a roasted chicken dinner and Christmas songs and early presents with the siblings. They threw us a lovely shower which netted us so many gifts The Boy could barely fit them (and the dog and me) in the car.
And back to now. The Christmas tree and lights are finally up, and the last of the gifts have been ordered and shipped. All of the baby clothes are washed and folded, organized and put away according to tiny size. The bassinet has taken the place of the dog's bed in our room; there's a Graco "Cherry Blossom" car seat on my black leather back seat. My suitcase has been triple checked and stands at attention, ready to go, whenever the moment arrives. I'm excited and terrified; impatient and acutely aware that it will happen when I least expect it and then we can never go back. I try to relish sleeping, even if it's oft-interrupted. I touch the belly often, reminding myself to treat this miracle with the awe it deserves. I'm attempting to appreciate every day it's still just me and The Boy, alone in our room, and trying not to think about how much it feels like I'll miss that. I'm praying it's really as fulfilling and wonderful as everyone says, even as I know in my heart that it will be.
How I've missed you! So much to update. Since last I was here, I've been everywhere. I am nearly 38 weeks along in the incubation of my child, whom I have come to believe may actually be doing Pilates in the womb. In layman's terms: She's kicking the crap out of me. I am getting anxious for her birth, the least romantic reason being I'm sick and tired of being pregnant! "How do you feel," is the most common question I'm asked, and I feel bad answering it. Honestly? My back is killing me; I pee several times in the middle of the night; I have contractions all the time, consistently and progressively closer together all day long, and then they just stop. No progress. And don't even ask about my last appointment. After a few rough days and rougher nights, I dragged myself to the OB, hopeful for news that included the word "centimeters." She said, at 37 weeks, there was no need to check.
"Most babies are born between 38 and 41 weeks," she explained. I was unsure why this mattered; I just needed a little something for the effort. Needed to be reminded I would not be pregnant forever-- that progress, however slowly, was being made. But it was not in the cards. I cried and called Amber and told her I'm never having a baby or wearing jeans that have a button on them ever again. I've been a little emotional.
All of this is true, yes, but I'm also working hard to relish the good things about the now. We spent a long weekend in November in Charleston for a friend's gorgeous wedding; spent lots of time with Edes and Tara, which was awesome. One last visit before I'm officially a mother, and one last plane ride and exploratory mini-vacation with The Boy before we add another title to our list. I teared up one night over a giggly pizza dinner for two. "I love that we're buddies and lovers," I told him. "But I'm nervous that once we add parents to the list, we won't be lovers anymore."
"No," he replied, "We will make sure we are all three. But no more. We can't be anymore than three."
A couple weeks later, we ventured to Connecticut for another last-- the last visit without the baby. I worried about raucous nights under the rationalization that it was the "last" time, but was pleasantly surprised with movies on the couch, an extravagant wedding we were all invited to that was a blast, a roasted chicken dinner and Christmas songs and early presents with the siblings. They threw us a lovely shower which netted us so many gifts The Boy could barely fit them (and the dog and me) in the car.
And back to now. The Christmas tree and lights are finally up, and the last of the gifts have been ordered and shipped. All of the baby clothes are washed and folded, organized and put away according to tiny size. The bassinet has taken the place of the dog's bed in our room; there's a Graco "Cherry Blossom" car seat on my black leather back seat. My suitcase has been triple checked and stands at attention, ready to go, whenever the moment arrives. I'm excited and terrified; impatient and acutely aware that it will happen when I least expect it and then we can never go back. I try to relish sleeping, even if it's oft-interrupted. I touch the belly often, reminding myself to treat this miracle with the awe it deserves. I'm attempting to appreciate every day it's still just me and The Boy, alone in our room, and trying not to think about how much it feels like I'll miss that. I'm praying it's really as fulfilling and wonderful as everyone says, even as I know in my heart that it will be.
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