All that talk–about “hanging in there”? Turns out I’m not even ten percent as tough as I let on. After another fun-filled day of crotch-shocking contraction action and walking around with a head between my legs, I am quitting. Giving up. Throwing in the towel. One more week might as well be one more year. Sweet angel of death take me now.
I’m so tired, and also: so dilated. Look, I’m just gonna be real here: 4 cm might sound like excellent news to some, but to a mother whose other 3 precious children so lovingly stalled out at this very point an entire week in advance of their actual arrivals, NOT SO MUCH. A 4 just means I’m in enough labor to have made progress, but not enough progress to score me unlimited access to the maternity ward and my blessed epidural. A 4 means I can look forward to another 7 days of strong and almost regular contractions; wicked nausea, and unrelenting heartburn; backache; shortness of breath; swollen EVERYTHING; the urge to pee 15 times an hour combined with the delightful inability to walk to the bathroom; and a most remarkable upper thigh pain that would have a grown man writhing in agony in the dirt. (Side note: I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t take great pleasure from such a sight right now.)
And then of course a potential problem arises along with all these symptoms: how the actual hell do I know when all this pre-labor ends and true labor begins? Hey, let’s ask the mother of three–OH WAIT. She has no flipping clue. So, thoughts? The predicament is maddening–MADDENING, I tell you! I am burning my copy of every labor and deliver book I’ve ever owned, and I’m eating the ashes and then barfing them up in a toilet made of knives, whose plumbing runs straight to hell. Stupid experts. Even they can’t help me now.
So much for going out on a high note. Pregnancy: I am so over it. The baby is over it. My family–as much as they love microwave hotdogs with cereal for dinner–is so over it.
I hope and pray this is the last blog anyone reads from me before the baby is born. Any new ones are sure to be wrought with the foulest of language–you’ve been warned.