Labor might actually be the easy part.

I am so, so behind. I may, or may not, have a four months worth of thoughts, notes, and musings in Wunderlist. I’m sure I’ll get to them some day…

I’ll start with Part 1:

Sunday morning (my due date) started out like any other day. Except for that fact that it was my due date…and Jay was desperate to get the baby out. Funny, right? Not like he was carrying around an extra 25 pounds. Don’t get me wrong, I was ready to be done with the whole pregnancy thing—I wanted my body back. My tailbone was out of place, I had swelling in places I didn’t know was possible, and my feet smelled as bad as my sister’s (hormones are whack). I wanted a glass of wine, sushi, over easy eggs, raw cookie dough, smoked salmon, brie, cold pasteurized juice, a medium rare steak, and maybe even a Jimmy John’s sandwich full of nitrates, just because. Oh, and I really, really wanted to lay flat on my back and stretch. I know, you’re thinking that one should be lower priority, but stretching just isn’t the same when you are pregnant. All that to say: I’m not the I-love-being-pregnant-so-much type.

We decided to try walking the baby out and did the four mile loop around the lake. Surprisingly, I went the entire walk without a bathroom break. Forty weeks pregnant and I get my PR (woot woot). It’s the little things.

That afternoon I had a feeling something might happen, but a girl has a lot of feelings during pregnancy, so I just assumed my body was reminding me I was forty weeks pregnant. Taunting me, actually. I mean, it had basically tortured me for the last ten months, why stop now? Ok, that was dramatic, but for real…So what else does one do when she doesn’t know what’s happening in her body? Google it, of course. And according to Google, I was having contractions, but they didn’t feel like what the doctors kept telling me they would feel like, so I was utterly confused.

Meanwhile, I had put Jay and Carlee in charge of dinner. If I was going to the hospital that night I WAS GOING TO EAT dinner because you aren’t allowed to eat when you are in labor. Isn’t that nuts? Labor is like a running a marathon. You can’t do that shit on fake apple juice and popsicles. I felt like I needed something of substance and that substance came in the form of catfish linguine. No, not my normal meal of choice, but I had ordered a free week of Blue Apron and we had to use the supplies before they went bad—I hate wasting food. PS I’m telling you this because it’s important to the story, not because you actually care about what I ate for dinner. Anyway, catfish, noodles, capers, pecorino cheese… get the picture? Good.

Fast forward a few hours and my contractions are 3.5 minutes apart and I’ve tried “walking it out,” bouncing on the exercise ball while watching Sisters (I thought a good laugh might help—it did not), and sitting in the bath tub (twice). By ten o’clock I was ready to call it quits on the whole natural labor thing. I wanted drugs…like, now. The fifteen minute car ride was terrible, but waiting on the nurse to officially admit me was torture. Once I was in the room I had to decide which drug I wanted. I had planned on laughing gas, but they didn’t offer it to me. I didn’t know anything about Stadol, but I could only use that until 8 cm. I was worried about the epidural dragging out the labor, but everyone said to do it anyway. This was the one time I wished I had created a birth plan. It’s hard to have sound judgment when all you want to do is vomit.

Vomit. Yes, this is where dinner comes back into play. I decided to do a two-course meal with my drugs—Stadol was the appetizer to my epidural—and while I was waiting for the Stadol I became violently ill during one of my contractions. Luckily, Jay had the puke bag ready. Unfortunately, it came out of my nose and my mouth. Catfish. Capers. Pecorino cheese. NOSE and mouth. It wasn’t that good going down. It was down right awful coming back up.  That actually takes the cake for the worst thing that happened to me at the hospital. (I know, it sounds nuts if you haven’t had baby, but epidurals are magic.)

To be continued…

Sweet dreams (hopefully they aren’t filled with catfish). xo

 

 

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