September 23, 2008
So...around 8:30 last night I had a contraction. I was standing on our bed, describing this great new color scheme and fancy painting technique I'm imagining for the bedroom, when I involuntarily yelped and clutched my ballooning belly. Jason raised his eyebrow and I clapped my hands together and sarcastically exclaimed, "Honey, it's time!" like pregnant women do in the movies.
Then I rolled my eyes and got back to the serious business of spending nonexistent money on hypothetical furniture.
Then five minutes later, I had another contraction.
And then another.
And this went on for awhile. Every five minutes. I drank some water. I sat down and put my feet up. I paced up and down the hallway.
After about an hour, they were still coming every five minutes or so, but didn't seem to be getting any worse. I decided to pack up my hospital bag anyway, panicking because I hadn't washed the baby's coming-home outfit yet. And the cameras weren't charged, and neither was my phone, and holy shit, MY TOENAILS.
I'd just put the finishing coat on my nails when the contractions stopped. Jason (who had been chugging caffeine and eating a variety of high-protein snacks downstairs while I occasionally reported on the state of my clenching uterus) looked pretty disappointed at the news.
And then everything started up again 20 minutes later.
By this point I was 99% sure we were dealing with false labor -- even though the contractions were coming at fairly regular intervals, they weren't consistent in intensity and weren't getting any worse, even though they'd been happening for hours. I kept trying to remember exactly how I felt in the hours before I knew I was "officially" in labor with Noah and was drawing a blank. Which is probably why I say stupid shit to pregnant women now about how "great" my labor was and how "empowering" it felt and whatever, it barely hurt at all! Menstrual cramps are worse! 'Tis a flesh wound!
In short, I was driving myself crazy, which is how I found myself on a dusty, never-used elliptical machine in our basement at 11:45 pm, hoping that if this was indeed IT and TIME, the exercise would get things progressing in a convincing manner.
Aaaaaaaand guess what! I'm still so totally fucking pregnant.
My bag is packed, at least. And I have every intention of finally starting to THINK about washing some baby clothes today. And oh, thank heavens, my toenails are painted. I mean, whew. Dodged quite a bullet there, Amy. How did you even sleep at night before?
AND NOW, A HOUSEKEEPING INTERLUDE...
The book signing thing! Is this Saturday. And unfortunately, there was some kind of snafu with the location and it's been moved from Vinoteca to the more child-friendly Caribou Coffee at 1400 14th St. NW. Time is the same, 5 - 7 pm. I know, I KNOW. I can't even drink and yet I am mourning the loss of the wine bar. FOR YOU. Sympathy alcohol pangs. But! It should still be pretty fun and casual and not scary and now Noah will be free to run around and charm you with his dimples and pirate talk. Or maybe he'll be a cranky standoffish jerk. You just never know how these popular blog offspring are gonna be. God, they think they're so awesome or whatever.
(Please come! Oh God.)
Also, I try not to barrage y'all with constant links to my paid ventures and all, but there's a giveaway on Mamapop right now for an entire year's supply of free Dove Beauty Products. Which I am like, really mad that I'm not allowed to enter, being that it's like, my job to pick a winner and all sorts of crap about "cheating" and "fairness." And all you have to do is leave a comment! That's it! (We get no money from the Dove people for this, by the way, it's just a really cool prize and if anyone deserves a year's supply of deodorant, it's YOU.)