the waiting game
Every day I wake up and my first thought is, "why am I still pregnant?" In all of my over-research of pregnancy and labor and birth, it doesn't seem logical to me that a woman that is three to four centimeters dialated, almost fully effaced, contracting regularly for two weeks and without mucus plug should still be pregnant a week after the the last of these things presented itself.
Friday brings an endless amount of optimism; three days to have this baby - piece of cake! I cut out of the office by 2:00 and rush home to sweep the whole house, wash all of the bedding from our bedroom and the guest bedroom, dust, thoroughly wipe down the kitchen and even clean the ceiling fan blades - consider nesting checked off of the pre-labor to-do list. Now...now she can come.
Saturday begins wonderfully - still pregnant, but enjoying a breakfast date with Eric before our tour of the hospital (another check off the 'ole to-do list). Still no baby, nothing left to do for the day, and antsy over the idea of any kind of relaxation, I set out to keep myself busy doing something...anything. I walk the Markle Antique Mall for a bit, come home and play Dance Central on the Kinect (topping all of my high scores, no less), go for a walk with Eric and the dogs (even running some of it to avoid the downpour we see headed our way), make dinner, and finally play some more Dance Central before bed.
3:00...4:15...5:00...6:00...6:30 all come and go...two of these to go to the bathroom, all of them in a constant state of discomfort and pain, all spent contracting. I finally get out of bed for the day and start timing contractions - three minutes apart, starting in the back, and ending up low in the belly...here we go! I call my mom to give her a heads up and let her know I'll keep her updated. Makeup on, hair done, everything packed, ready to call the doctor, and those wonderful signs of labor come to a screeching halt.
Walking into our Sunday School class, I hear, "You're still here?" and, "We thought you would be in labor." People mean well and I know they're concerned, but these kinds of things are beginning to feel like nails on a chalkboard. A graduation party and a walk around the outdoor mall with Eric later, we are at home and I am left feeling restless again. Optimism dwindling, it's time for a last-ditch weekend effort: "Lily, it's time for a walk." Four miles...an hour and a half of contractions every two minutes, a couple of which I have to stop walking for, and as soon as we stop, they stop.
Monday morning I hold onto every ounce of hope I have, thinking, "My water could still break this morning." Instead, I walk in to the office to hear, "You're still here?" and, "I was hoping I wouldn't see you."
...Like nails on a chalk board, I tell you.