You know what’s worse than having to go through a traumatic experience? Waiting for that traumatic experience to happen.
Knowing that it is going to happen one way or another so you hyperventilate a little and try to brace yourself like “ok, bring it on, I’m ready” thinking that it’s time but then it doesn’t happen. Yet. And you’re like COME ON JUST GET IT OVER WITH ALREADY.
I’ve been having some intermittent contractions the past week and every time I feel my stomach tightening and the waves of pain are twisting my uterus into a ball, I run to the bathroom to wash my hair. Priorities, people! Because if I have to go into labor and roll around making terrible grunting noises, at least I’m doing it with bouncy, silky soft, nice-smelling hair. There’s nothing worse than sounding like a deranged neanderthal while looking like one.
So these contractions, they got really bad on Tuesday evening. Usually my Braxton Hicks have a pain level of like 2-3 but these were at least a 6. Thinking that it was finally time, I washed my hair, packed my baby bag, lay on my side and waited for the contractions to come in harder and faster.
By 1am, they were 13 minutes apart and the husband was all “I think we should go in now, please don’t make me deliver the baby at home with hot water and a bunch of towels.” I don’t know what shows he’s been watching but he obviously forgot about the scissors. It’s always hot water, towels and scissors, amirite?
I was determined to wait till they were 10 minutes apart before checking myself in, but before it got to that point, they just stopped. One minute, I was hissing and grunting in pain, then the next minute, just gone.
Husband: So how, is it time?
Me: Gone. The contractions are gone.
Husband: That’s all? So what do we do now?
Me: I have no idea. I think we can go to bed.
What? You were expecting a dramatic end to this story? So was I. But I’m still around, as pregnant as ever. Still waiting.
