Why no, I didn't. But thanks for asking as well as for assuming that I can pop them out like Pez. If I keep that image in mind I might be able to squeeze him out by envisioning my hooha as a giant Yosemite Sam head. Perfect.
I thought I was going to pop the kid, though. Yesterday, after a full day of Braxton-Hicks contractions, a trip to Gutsy's preschool, breakfast with The Sister, a shopping trip to the dollar store and Walmart and a drive-by the dentist's office to drop off a cheque, I came home with a tired three-year-old and bags full of stuff. When I opened the front door, our grey cat made an escape attempt from Catcatraz. She launched herself at the front door and, not knowing what to do, I kicked the door closed behind me.
That's when I heard an awful wail and noticed that the closed door contained her trapped paw. Oh god, it was AWFUL. Thankfully paw was still attached to cat and nothing seems to be broken.
Obviously, I quickly opened the door and she bolted. I went after her, calling her name, but she had made a dive into the icy, shark-infested waters surrounding the prison and was gone.
About 20 minutes after that, the contractions started getting a lot worse. By five, they were painful and coming about every three minutes. I called Geekster (who has a 40+ minute commute) and politely suggested that he leave as soon as his meeting is over. I called my dad, who said my mom was out. I called my mom, who rushed over with The Penguin so we could head to the hospital.
Of course, nothing big happened. We got there and I was still contracting. I had the stupid monitor put on me and they were coming around every 3-5 minutes. My urine test revealed I was slightly dehydrated, so I was given an enormous glass of ice water. No change in my cervix since my prenatal on Tuesday and my baby, like many young men before him, is showing a fear of commitment and is not engaged. I was given the option to stay at the hospital and wait a few more hours, but I decided to just come home.
The Penguin insisted Geekster and I make the most of our babysitters and go out for coffee. We hit a nice little cafe where I consoled my embarrassed self with some herbal tea and a brownie thing called a 'squirrel' (which I believe to have been free of any mammals or mammalian parts).
Then the itching started and progressed through the night and into today. I don't mess around with the potential for ICP. I was itchy everywhere! So, with my proverbial tail between my legs, I went back to the hospital this morning for liver tests, which thankfully came out negative. Apparently I'm itchy for no other reason but that I'm itchy. This is good news, but frustrating. I can live with being itchy and I'm really happy my baby isn't feeling the wrath of a broken liver (funny how the alcoholic has liver problems. Hah!), but I felt like such an idiot for going into the hospital twice in less than 24hrs. I told them I just like the attention. I told The Madre that I was faking the entire thing so Geekster and I could go out on a date. If only it were true!
They are quite nice there, though. They even served me a disgusting hospital lunch while I was waiting for my liver panel results to come back. Something resembling meatballs, "garlic" "mashed potatoes" and vegetables made it onto my tray. I checked the meat to see if it had ears or a tail. I think the green things were spices. I think.
Have I mentioned how much I wanted to have a homebirth this time around? If anything, I could at least eat well while labouring and recovering. Eating well = identifiable foods. Hey, I'm not picky. I just want to know what I'm chewing. Another reason I don't consume Spam.
On the bright side, Jackson the Contraction is healthy, I'm (physically) healthy and I get a few more days or weeks to get my pregnant, slacker behind out of my self-made ass groove on the couch and get the rest of our lives and home organized before he makes his appearance.
In other words, I have a lot more time to drink coffee and talk on the phone, which is about all I do these days. The gremlins are about this close to placing an ad in the paper for a new mother. One who gets them a snack instead of saying 'You can't reach that? Grab a chair. The one I'm pointing to, there. Yeah. Ok, climb up... I know I normally say not to climb up on things. Just ignore that rule for now. No, you won't get in trouble. Just grab something sugary and go watch Sponge-Bob, ok? Mommy's too pathetic to get up right now.'
*sigh*
But hey, it's almost International Talk Like a Pirate Day and I'd rather not be in labour for it. September 19th is the grand occasion. I wonder how Angry Neighbour would feel if I walked up to him shouting 'Ahoy, thar! How be yer deck? Free o' me pesky felines, I hope? YAR! But ye ar' a bitchy one, matey, I must say. Do ye have a bottle o' rum stuck up thar?'
I could give him my new name:
My pirate name is:
Mad Anne Kidd
Every pirate is a little bit crazy. You, though, are more than just a little bit. Even though you're not always the traditional swaggering gallant, your steadiness and planning make you a fine, reliable pirate. Arr!
Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network
I thought I was going to pop the kid, though. Yesterday, after a full day of Braxton-Hicks contractions, a trip to Gutsy's preschool, breakfast with The Sister, a shopping trip to the dollar store and Walmart and a drive-by the dentist's office to drop off a cheque, I came home with a tired three-year-old and bags full of stuff. When I opened the front door, our grey cat made an escape attempt from Catcatraz. She launched herself at the front door and, not knowing what to do, I kicked the door closed behind me.
That's when I heard an awful wail and noticed that the closed door contained her trapped paw. Oh god, it was AWFUL. Thankfully paw was still attached to cat and nothing seems to be broken.
Obviously, I quickly opened the door and she bolted. I went after her, calling her name, but she had made a dive into the icy, shark-infested waters surrounding the prison and was gone.
About 20 minutes after that, the contractions started getting a lot worse. By five, they were painful and coming about every three minutes. I called Geekster (who has a 40+ minute commute) and politely suggested that he leave as soon as his meeting is over. I called my dad, who said my mom was out. I called my mom, who rushed over with The Penguin so we could head to the hospital.
Of course, nothing big happened. We got there and I was still contracting. I had the stupid monitor put on me and they were coming around every 3-5 minutes. My urine test revealed I was slightly dehydrated, so I was given an enormous glass of ice water. No change in my cervix since my prenatal on Tuesday and my baby, like many young men before him, is showing a fear of commitment and is not engaged. I was given the option to stay at the hospital and wait a few more hours, but I decided to just come home.
The Penguin insisted Geekster and I make the most of our babysitters and go out for coffee. We hit a nice little cafe where I consoled my embarrassed self with some herbal tea and a brownie thing called a 'squirrel' (which I believe to have been free of any mammals or mammalian parts).
Then the itching started and progressed through the night and into today. I don't mess around with the potential for ICP. I was itchy everywhere! So, with my proverbial tail between my legs, I went back to the hospital this morning for liver tests, which thankfully came out negative. Apparently I'm itchy for no other reason but that I'm itchy. This is good news, but frustrating. I can live with being itchy and I'm really happy my baby isn't feeling the wrath of a broken liver (funny how the alcoholic has liver problems. Hah!), but I felt like such an idiot for going into the hospital twice in less than 24hrs. I told them I just like the attention. I told The Madre that I was faking the entire thing so Geekster and I could go out on a date. If only it were true!
They are quite nice there, though. They even served me a disgusting hospital lunch while I was waiting for my liver panel results to come back. Something resembling meatballs, "garlic" "mashed potatoes" and vegetables made it onto my tray. I checked the meat to see if it had ears or a tail. I think the green things were spices. I think.
Have I mentioned how much I wanted to have a homebirth this time around? If anything, I could at least eat well while labouring and recovering. Eating well = identifiable foods. Hey, I'm not picky. I just want to know what I'm chewing. Another reason I don't consume Spam.
On the bright side, Jackson the Contraction is healthy, I'm (physically) healthy and I get a few more days or weeks to get my pregnant, slacker behind out of my self-made ass groove on the couch and get the rest of our lives and home organized before he makes his appearance.
In other words, I have a lot more time to drink coffee and talk on the phone, which is about all I do these days. The gremlins are about this close to placing an ad in the paper for a new mother. One who gets them a snack instead of saying 'You can't reach that? Grab a chair. The one I'm pointing to, there. Yeah. Ok, climb up... I know I normally say not to climb up on things. Just ignore that rule for now. No, you won't get in trouble. Just grab something sugary and go watch Sponge-Bob, ok? Mommy's too pathetic to get up right now.'
*sigh*
But hey, it's almost International Talk Like a Pirate Day and I'd rather not be in labour for it. September 19th is the grand occasion. I wonder how Angry Neighbour would feel if I walked up to him shouting 'Ahoy, thar! How be yer deck? Free o' me pesky felines, I hope? YAR! But ye ar' a bitchy one, matey, I must say. Do ye have a bottle o' rum stuck up thar?'
I could give him my new name:
My pirate name is:
Mad Anne Kidd
Every pirate is a little bit crazy. You, though, are more than just a little bit. Even though you're not always the traditional swaggering gallant, your steadiness and planning make you a fine, reliable pirate. Arr!
Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network