Last night I woke up at 3:30 in the morning, totally drenched in sweat and having a contraction. It wasn’t too terribly painful – sort of like doing an involuntary sit-up, my stomach muscles were literally contracting without any participation on my part. It felt more strange and uncomfortable than anything. I noted the time and tried to go back to sleep.

I kept having contractions every six minutes for the next two hours. I started to get really excited, thinking ok, obviously this has to be it, right? All the books say that false labor has no pattern to it, and that’s one of the primary distinctions between the two. And this was precisely every six minutes, so I thought it had to be The Real Deal.

I didn’t wake Dave up, because I thought that if we were going to be heading to the hospital later in the morning, I might as well let him be as rested as possible. I remembered that our childbirth class instructor had told us that early labor can take a long time, so she suggested that we (meaning the mom-to-be and her coach) try to rest as much as possible. Take naps, shower, eat, whatever – since we’ll be needing our energy later on down the road. That sounded logical to me. And besides, the contractions weren’t too bad on the pain scale, so I figured we had lots of time.

Somewhere around 5-something in the morning, the contractions suddenly dropped from being every six minutes to being ten minutes apart. Then… nothing. I fell asleep, and that was it. I woke up a few hours later, no more contractions. And other than a few sporadic Braxton-Hicks type sensations, there’s been nothing else happening all day today. Zip, zilch, na-da.

So, um, what the heck was that??

I talked to my mom a couple of hours ago, she said she has “a feeling” that I’m going to go into labor on Friday or Saturday. She’s never claimed to have any psychic abilities in the past, so I’m not sure where this is coming from. But she guessed I was pregnant before I knew I was, so who knows? Maybe she’s right.

It would actually kind of suck if I go into labor over the weekend, since my obstetrician isn’t on call until next week, and I don’t know how that works with weekends. Like, would she be there on the Saturday or Sunday before or after her week on call? I only know for sure that she’d be there on Monday. I just really love her and feel comfortable with her, and I want her to be the one who handles the birth. Which is not to say that I have any problems with any of the other doctors in the group, I just don’t know them. So really, it’s no big tragedy either way. As long as we can hurry up and get this baby out of me, I’ll be fine either way.

The funny part of going into labor over the weekend is that it makes me think that maybe the baby overheard all this talk of inducing on Monday, so she’ll decide, “All right, all right, I’ll come out on my own!” at the very last minute. That would be very apropos for a child of Dave’s and mine – the stubbornness factor alone could make her decide to beat us to the punch. It wouldn’t surprise me at all.

I really thought that since I’ve been feeling so horrible lately that I would be spared that whole last-minute “nesting frenzy” that you hear about pregnant women going through. HA! Apparently not.

Since I haven’t been up for shopping, I ordered one of those glider rocking chairs online(thank you, target.com! And thanks to my parents for the gift card that bought it!). It was delivered to the house in a big box, and Dave put it together for me, which was great and lovely and sweet of him. But then yesterday morning I started looking around our living room thinking about how that one chair made the whole room look off-balanced. So I was thinking, “well, if I move this bookcase over to that wall instead, and that big ol’ trunk really needs to go back in the bay window [we had moved it to make room for the Christmas tree], and then I can move this stuff over here, blah blah…”

You see where this is going, right? 

Basically, an hour or so later, Dave wandered in the room and was totally shocked. He was like “what the hell have you been doing? You shouldn’t be moving heavy stuff!” I told him that I figured the worst-case scenario from me moving a bookcase would be that it might make me go into labor, and at this point? Bring. It. On. He just shook his head and left the room, and I finished tidying up.

A couple of hours later, I figured out that, actually, the worst-case scenario is not going into labor, it’s just being in horrible, excruciating pain. I don’t know what I did to my back, but it’s now been an entire day and I’m still waddling around the house like some sort of hugely pregnant invalid. (Sex-ay!)

And I’m having some weird pain on the left side of my stomach – I know it’s not a contraction because the pain is constant, and contractions are supposed to happen in waves. I think I just pulled an abdominal muscle. Which was really brilliant on my part. Since, you know, I’m not going to be needing my ab muscles for anything important in the next, oh, nine days or so.

I am so, so stupid. And I’m also incredibly grateful for that huge econo-size bottle of Tylenol in my medicine cabinet. Because, in case this wasn’t already crystal clear? OUCH.

There’s this weird thing about being home and in bed every day, which is that I feel like I need to post something here every day. I’ve never been a daily blogger before, so I don’t know why I feel the sudden pressure. I think it’s partially because I’m bored, and also because I want to make sure my brain doesn’t atrophy while I’m lying around feeling sorry for myself.

So, ok. We have this grocery store, and I shop there at least once a week. There are two different women who work there who both have young children (like toddler-aged), so they always ask me how I’m doing and commiserate about pregnancy woes and all of that. They’re both polite, they keep the conversation light, they never tell me any horror stories, and as a result, I like both of them.

Then there’s this other woman who works there. Now, I’m guessing that if you’re in your 50’s and you work as the checkout clerk at a grocery store, maybe your life hasn’t gone exactly according to plan? I would think that it probably isn’t a lifelong goal for very many people. I’m not passing judgment on her for what she does, I’m just trying to find an explanation as to why she is such a completely horrible, nasty, bitter person. So far, that’s my best theory.

Way back before I got pregnant, she would lecture me about the items I was buying, which always struck me as wildly inappropriate. I went through a phase last spring where I was obsessed with strawberries and cool whip (because seriously, have you ever tried them together? Heaven.), and she would stand there and tell me about how many chemicals were in cool whip and how horrible it is, and how it screws with your glycemic index, blah blah blah… And, ok. I’m sure she’s right. But is it really necessary to tell your paying customers that they’re making unwise selections? And if she feels that passionately about it, shouldn’t she go work at Whole Foods or someplace like that?

(It’s also worth noting that this woman is, herself, no vision of perfect health. I know she’s a smoker because the lines on her face are that obvious, plus my hyper-sonic pregnant sense of smell has caught more than a slight whiff of tobacco coming off of her. And she’s at least 50 pounds overweight. Again, no judgment, I’m just sayin’.)

I’ve gotten to the point where I will happily stand in a different checkout line for an extra ten minutes if it means I can avoid this woman. But earlier this week, I got stuck. It was one of those deals where the manager came over and said “oh, there’s no waiting on lane 5,” and he literally moved my cart for me over to her line, so I didn’t see how I could object without looking like a freak. Fine. I figured I would just try to keep the conversation as minimal as possible.

Around this time, Baby Girl shifted herself so that she was pressing on a nerve ending, and I had a shooting cramp go down my left inner thigh. This has been happening a lot lately, and the quickest way I know to relieve it (other than immediately sitting down, which isn’t an option at the supermarket) is to shift my weight back and forth. So I was kind of rocking back and forth, from my left foot to my right – almost like a boxer, I guess – and I suppose I must’ve looked sort of strange. Like hey, mind if I boogie down right here to the easy listening Muzak on the intercom? But it’s something I do without thinking too much about, since the alternative is to be in excruciating pain. No thanks.

Anyway, Horrible Woman asked me how I’m holding up, and I was like, “fine, thanks, just trying to get her to change positions in there.” She asked me how much longer I had until my due date, and this was right after my OB appointment on Monday, so I was all happy about the fact that there’s finally an end in sight to this damn pregnancy. So I think my response was along the lines of, “oh, any day now, but if she hasn’t shown up by January 29th, they’re going to induce.” Don’t ask me why I shared that bit of information, it was really stupid on my part.

I don’t remember too much of what came after that, because I think I lost consciousness for a moment when I was sucked into her Swirling Vortex of Negativity. It was basically a tirade against the entire medical community combined with every worst-case childbirth horror story you can possibly imagine. All I really remember hearing is “oh, don’t you dare let them induce you, that’s the worst thing you can do!” And there was also something about, “Don’t get an epidural, my back has never been the same since!” I believe there was also a reference to fecal incontinence, but it’s all a bit hazy. Maybe it was the pain from the cramp in my thigh, but I do believe I might have blacked out for just a second there.

It took every fiber of my being not to scream, “shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!!!” What kind of person tells these stories to a woman who’s 9 months pregnant? It’s just mean. Not to mention that this woman’s most recent experience with childbirth was twenty years ago (she told me that her youngest child is 19), so really, I don’t think any of her input is all that valid.

The problem is, I don’t know how to tell her to keep her stories to herself without coming off as totally rude. And I’m just not one of those people who can be nasty to someone who I think has a crappy job. (Case in point: a waitress can give me the worst service in the world, and I’ll probably still be nice and leave a decent tip, just because I feel bad for anyone who has to handle other people’s food for a living.) And clearly, avoiding her doesn’t work, since I’ve tried that tactic and it failed. I seriously fear what kind of crazy-assed ravings she’s going to have when I go into the store with a baby.

I’ve thought about anonymously calling the store and telling the management folks that they need to do something about Horrible Woman, or at least tell her to keep her damn opinions to herself while she’s at work. But I don’t know, isn’t getting her in trouble with her boss worse than me saying something to her face? I’ve also thought about just going to our one other grocery store more often, but they don’t have the salad bar with the taboule that I love so much and eat almost every day. What to do? I’m at a loss.  

Hypothetical situation: say you’re nine months pregnant. And that for the past two months, you’ve had some kind of weird stomach ailment that… for lack of a nicer way of putting it… gave you “the trots” several times a day. (There. I said it. I’ve been alluding to this stomach bug for ages, but that’s what it is. I know Dave is recoiling in horror right now, because we generally do not discuss Bathroom Issues in our house, ever. But I’m tired of trying to be genteel and use euphemisms, so there you have it. Call it my big Dooce epiphany, I have finally written about poop on my website.)

Ok, so say you had this stomach thing, but it seemed to be getting better for the most part – after many, many doctor visits and prescription drugs. And then one night, your husband is out of town, and you’re trying to figure out what to have for dinner. And you remember that your husband hates all forms of shellfish, and generally can’t even stand to be in the same room with you if you’re eating it, so you figure what the hell? Let’s have some crab!

So, you go to the grocery store, where you can buy a whole, fresh, pre-cooked dungeness crab – and the seafood counter guys will even crack it for you! So all you have to do when you get home is melt the butter, and you can just pull out the crab meat with your hands! Awesome, right? So you’re all excited about your crab dinner, and you get it home, melt the butter, set the table, and then you realize that the crab smells… slightly off. Not bad, exactly. Just a bit more “fishy” than a genuinely fresh crab should smell like. But you taste a tiny bite, and it’s totally fine. And the texture seems ok too. (Because seriously, with crab, that’s the first sign that something is amiss, isn’t it? When it gets that weird spongy texture?) 

And let’s not forget that you’re tired as hell (because, remember? Pregnant and having stomach problems!), and you don’t really feel like driving back to the store to return the crab, or figuring out some alternative meal for dinner. So you’re faced with the dilemma: to eat the crab, or not eat the crab?

If you should ever find yourself in this situation, take a tip from someone who’s been there: DON’T EAT THE CRAB. It will only make your slightly-recuperated gastrointestinal tract revert right back to its former “what the hell?” status, and you will spend the next several days in severe pain and discomfort.

So. That’s pretty much a summary of my life right now. And to continue my whine-fest, here are some other things that are making my life miserable and/or generally irritating the hell out of me:

1. The hives, y’all. The hiiiiiives.

They itch like poison ivy, and they’re driving me insane. (Side note: my foot was originally in this picture, and I was going to leave it like that to show off my pretty pedicure from last week. Then I decided that the whole Internet doesn’t really need to see just how puffy my ankles have become, so I cropped it. Also, do you know how hard it is to take a picture of the outside of your own leg? Turns out, it’s pretty challenging.)

2. That Baby Girl has apparently settled herself on a nerve ending, so I keep having shooting cramps down my left inner thigh that literally take my breath away. Baths have become my new favorite thing (thanks for the suggestion, Cat!) because it’s the only way I get some relief. I guess the weight of the water makes her float and relieves some of the pressure on my hips. I’m now taking baths at least once a day.

3. The cats. Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but they haven’t been able to go outside because of the snow, so they’re getting all cabin fever-y and acting up (jumping onto tables where they know they aren’t allowed, knocking things over, etc.). And our one boy kitty, Beaumont, apparently has picked up on some kind of Mommy Pheromone coming off of me, because I cannot get him to leave me alone. It’s sweet when he wants to cuddle, but not so sweet when he tries to hurtle himself under my feet as I’m walking (usually downstairs). I’ve issued quite a few death threats against him recently. So far, he seems unaffected by my harsh language.

4. My attention span. Or lack thereof, I should say. Which sucks, since these days my life is pretty much restricted to web-surfing and watching TV. It’s impossible for me to follow a movie plot. Case in point: Dave rented “The Black Dahlia,” because I mentioned that I wanted to see it, and if you asked me afterward, I would’ve sworn that it was some kind of eight-hour epic that should’ve been broken down as a mini-series. Y’all, it was 121 minutes long. Two hours and one measly minute. And it nearly killed me. It’s gotten to the point where I have a hard time even following the Daily Show (and it is a sad, sad day when Jon Stewart can’t make me laugh). I’m now pretty much just watching “Friends” or “Everybody Loves Raymond” reruns. Pathetic.

5. Most commercials, although one in particular – the new Match.com ads. Last night, the sound of Dr. Phil’s voice made me throw my head back and groan so violently that Dave thought I was having a contraction. (I’m sorry if there are any Dr. Phil fans reading this, but I absolutely despise the man. I want him to just. go. away.)

6. This post from Shannon, which makes me remember that of course I am incredibly grateful to be pregnant, and happy that our baby seems to be healthy and thriving (even if the same can’t be said for her mother). It just sucks that there are so many people out there who would be amazing parents – or who already are amazing parents, and would continue to be amazing with their future children – and that the universe/God/whatever can sometimes seem totally arbitrary and unfair in deciding who gets to have babies and who doesn’t. This also applies to one of my very dear friends who’s just starting to undergo fertility treatments with her husband, after they’ve been trying to get pregnant for over a year with no success.

I realize there are bigger injustices in the world, I just don’t understand how the world can work in such a way where we have idiots like this who seem to have no problem reproducing, while so many families – who are completely full of love, and who could provide a safe, supportive environment for a child to grow up in – are presented with challenge after challenge when they try. It’s not fair, and it just flat-out blows.