A labor story, part 2

(Part 1 of my labor story here.)

Finally we were at the hospital where they quickly whisked me into triage. Ah, triage, how I despise you. You are like Labor Purgatory, a place where no woman enduring contractions wants to be for too long. It is the unknown- will I stay here and have this baby or have to go back home? –  where the only thing running through my head was, Dear God, I hope they take me to a birthing suite soon… God must have heard my desperate, silent plea because in less than 45 minutes they told me I was 3-4 cm dilated, 100% effaced, and I was in the birthing suite hooked up to an IV going about my pacing-and-rocking-and-whooo-whooo-whoooing business.

Shortly thereafter our families arrived at the hospital and came straight into my room, again looking horrified. Can I just state for the record, Mom, that seeing that alarmed look on your face and then witnessing YOU CRY WHEN YOU SAW ME, well, it didn’t exactly help my overall situation. I know you didn’t mean it, but what I took away from your reaction was THAT YOU THOUGHT I MIGHT DIE, WHICH MADE ME THINK, HMM, I MIGHT DIE!  THANKS FOR THE HEADS UP! Maybe next time when, God-willing, Baby #2 rolls around you can stroll into my room WITHOUT crying and instead prance into the room with a big smile on your face, perhaps with a little jazz hand action for some added flair, and why not even a throw a party hat on your head? It is a birthday, after all. Hell, bring me cake while you’re at it. Then if someone dares to cry or grimace or shudder in fear after looking at me I CAN DO SOMETHING WITH THAT CAKE.

So amidst this family reunion in my birthing suite, I was – oh yeah! – still in labor. At this point I found that I was getting into a constant rhythm, a pattern of rocking side to side in between contractions then when I felt another contraction coming on I would turn around, head straight for the side of the bed, bend over, and grip the shit out of that handle, all the while whooo-whooo-whoooing until it was over.

I think I went through this cycle approximately a billion or eleventy times. Meanwhile, I also started feeling some back labor which almost felt worse than the contractions themselves. Rob, still feeling helpless, attempted to make himself useful by massaging my lower back while I crouched over the bed (which didn’t help) and sometimes would put a cold washcloth on my bare neck (which also didn’t help. But thanks for the effort, honey). Oh, and I forgot to mention, the reason that my neck was bare? That was because I quickly realized how moronic I was in thinking that I needed to have my hair all beautifully blown out for labor, and shortly into the whole labor process I got to the point where if it took any longer than two seconds to pull my hair up into a pony tail I was going to threaten whoever was in closest proximity to me to pull a Britney Spears and assist me in shaving it all off. Luckily it didn’t come to that.

So there I was in the throes of labor, when my nurse, Susi (who was awesome, just for the record. Hi Susi!), suggested that I “relax” (quotation marks totally necessary) through my contractions. Do you know how impossible it is to “relax” during a contraction? It’s like asking someone to sleep through their REM cycle with their eyes open or asking Oliver to walk to the kitchen on his hind legs to fetch Mama a peanut butter milkshake, and while he’s at it to recite the Declaration of Independence in pig latin. In other words, SORT OF ALMOST IMPOSSIBLE, KIND OF. But I tried to “relax” anyway as much as I could, knowing that if I worked with my body I would progress much quicker than if I fought against it.

Seems that the ol’ “relaxing” thing helped, because when Susi checked me the next time I had already progressed to 6 cm dilated. It was at that point that she asked me if I wanted an epidural. All I remember saying was how tempting that offer sounded, to know that in only a few short minutes I could have total relief from all the pain. It didn’t take me too long to accept the offer and get that infamous needle stuck into my back. Since I knew I wanted to keep my options open to pain management, having not committed myself to a natural birth, I didn’t feel guilty to be getting the drugs. Instead I felt pretty proud of myself for making it that far, to 6 cm, and looked forward to enjoying the rest of the process instead of spending it hunched over the bed handle. The only caveat to the whole thing was that I had to endure about three contractions while actually receiving the epidural, and not being able to move or flinch or bat an eyelash when a gigantic needle is deep within one’s spine is horribly difficult and made the contractions feel even worse.

Only a couple of minutes later when the epidural took effect I was able to chill. Ahhhh. I was a new woman. What was especially awesome at that point was when Rob would stand next to my bed, look up at the computer screen and see those gigantic peaks moving across the monitor, and ask me in total disbelief, “You don’t feel those?!” And no, I didn’t. I DIDN’T! AND IT WAS SO AWESOME! I spent the next two hours just hanging out, waiting for all of my antibiotics to get into my system (I was Strep B positive) before the doctor could come in and break my water. And with all that relaxing and hanging out I progressed to 8 cm dilated.

Finally, with only an hour to go before they would break my water, Rob and I were left alone to get some rest before I started pushing and our lives instantly changed from the moment that we heard that first precious little cry. I remember saying to him how incredible it was that this was finally IT, that by the end of this we were actually going to have a baby. A little, tiny, innocent human being who we would call our daughter. Daughter. Funny, that still seems like such a foreign term to me. By that point we were both exhausted from being up all night, so Rob reclined in the chair to sleep a little and I tried to do the same, although I think I only slept for just a couple of minutes. I found it much more calming to pray; to pray for a smooth and quick delivery, and that Avalon would be a beautiful, healthy baby. It was such a strange feeling I had during that time – my heart was pounding and I felt physically anxious about what was about to happen, yet at the same time I felt a curious sense of peace in that quiet, dim hospital room. At six o’clock the doctor was coming in to break my water, so as I prayed I watched the hands of the clock slowly make their way to the six and the twelve. And right on the dot, my doctor was at my side, telling me that I was 10 cm dilated and that it was time to push.

After breaking my water my nurse gave us quick instructions on what to do: she and Rob were going to hold my legs back, and I was going to grab underneath my thighs, pull myself forward, and push like hell. Before I knew it, there I was, PUSHING LIKE HELL. Apparently my pushes were pretty good, because my doctor encouraged me and told me that she would be out in no time if I kept pushing as hard as I was. But the thing about pushing is that it is seriously, for real, the hardest workout in this entire world. Kettlebells, SUCK IT, you don’t even compare to the effort and sweat that it takes to push a baby out of a vagina. I worked so hard and pushed with everything I had that I thought my head was going to pop right off of my neck. And I’m positive that I blacked out a couple of times in the middle of a push, only to come back to life and wonder, what the heck am I doing and why are people counting and holding my legs up over my head? It was totally bizarre, man.

I think I eventually got a little tired and quit pushing so hard, because half an hour into the pushing process my doctor piped up and asked, “Do you want to use the mirror?” Did I want to use the mirror? DID I WANT TO USE THE INFAMOUS MIRROR, ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND, WHY WOULD I WANT TO SEE THAT? When I pulled myself together and calmly replied that, nah, I didn’t really think I wanted that, the doctor asked, “Are you sure? I really think it would help.” And dingdingding! Those were the key words: that it would help. And after pushing for half an hour and having my epidural turned off so that I could feel my pushing a little bit more, I was all for a little bit of help. So I obliged and the nurse wheeled over the full-length mirror, placed it right at the foot of the bed, and people, I don’t know how else to put it, but I TOTALLY USED THE MIRROR TO WATCH MY BABY COMING OUT OF MY CROTCH AND I LOVED IT. I did. I loved it. After the millisecond of wigging out over what I was seeing in the mirror’s reflection, I got over it and used that mirror to my advantage. To watch and see the progress I made with each push was incentive to keep pushing, and to push with every single ounce of effort that I had in me. As her head was making its way out, I could see that she had hair! Lots of dark brown hair! I could tell already that she was beautiful.

It was still hard, though, and a little bit discouraging when after each push I would relax and her head would sneak right back inside again. Finally, just after seven o’clock, I was in the middle of a push when I saw the scissors come out and with a little episiotomy her head was out, thank God. Beyond the blood and the snip! and the knowledge of WHAT JUST HAPPENED DOWN THERE, I didn’t care, all I cared about was that it meant she was almost here and I was just seconds away from meeting my baby. I was instructed to stop pushing right then as the nurse sucked out the gunk from Avalon’s nose and mouth, and then the doctor looked up at Rob and me and told us to reach down and pull her out ourselves. Obviously we were sort of caught off guard by his request to grab her – isn’t that what THE DOCTOR WAS THERE FOR? – but at 7:08 am we did what we were told and reached down, grabbed on to her slimy little body, and pulled her up onto my stomach. I tried to look down and catch a glance at her but had a hard time seeing what she looked like. All I knew was that she felt tiny, much smaller than I expected her to be. And then she wailed. And wailed and wailed and wailed for the entire hour of bonding time she spent lying on my bare chest. But she was beautiful; she had a gorgeous, tan complexion and lots of pretty dark hair; beautiful facial features, and the cutest button nose I had ever seen. At only six pounds, four ounces she was just a little peanut.

An hour after she was born, and after I nursed her for the first time, our families were finally able to come into the room and meet Avalon. While she was being passed around from person to person I sat there in a deep haze, feeling like I had gotten run over by a truck and punched in the face, my face swollen up like a water balloon from all of the IV fluids that were pumped into my body all night long. But the happiness and the pride I felt during those moments was something I had never experienced before.

She was my baby, our baby, and I already loved her more than I ever knew was possible.

A labor story, part 1

My labor story. FINALLY. I’m sure no one in this large and expansive universe was waiting on pins and needles to hear this story, but as for me, I managed to drive myself clinically insane from all the not-being-able-to-find-the-time-with-a-newborn-to-write-this labor story. It’s funny – freaking hilarious, actually –  how ignorant I was prior to giving birth. Not only was I completely oblivious as to how frequently Avalon would fuss and cry, how challenging nursing would be, and how there would be times where I thought I just couldn’t take it anymore, I also had this ridiculous delusion in my mind that I’d get around to peacefully sitting down and writing this post within days, YES, DAYS, HOW DELUSIONAL COULD I BE? of actually giving birth. Now here I am, six weeks postpartum, just starting to finally string together a few words to get this thing going. At least now I’m fully aware that this could take at least another three weeks to finish because, THE NEWBORNS, THEY REQUIRE A BIT OF ATTENTION.

Also, a bit of an amber alert, if you will: I’m going to be telling it like it is. Labor and delivery, although miraculous, is not a very pretty event. So for all you delicate flowers out there who do not want to hear me keeping it real, and by that I mean VAGINA VAGINA VAGINA, please do head on back to Facebook where you can stalk your friends in peace without any ugly mental pictures obstructing your view.

Well then.

My due date was August 25th, a Tuesday. I, like most pregnant women I’m sure, had been hoping ever since that safe 36 week mark that I would go into labor early and that my baby girl would make her way into the world. As the days and weeks kept passing – 37, 38, 39, and HELLO 40 WEEKS PREGNANT, NEVER HOPED I WOULD SEE YOU! – still no sign of her. At my 39 week OB appointment my doctor announced that I was 2-3 centimeters dilated, and although those words sound hopeful and exciting to an expectant mother, it really means a whole lot of of nothing as the baby could still sit tight within the cozy womb for another sweet forever week or two. Before I left the doctor’s office I made my 40 week appointment and cleverly scheduled it for the morning of my actual due date, sure that I would have already given birth by then and wouldn’t need that appointment anyway.

The weekend passed, and still no baby. Finally Monday evening rolled around, and I parked my round body in the bathtub with my lavender bath salts (“labor-inducing!” they say, to which I say YOU LIE), as I had every night for the past couple of weeks. As I sat in the warm water reading my book, I noticed my stomach kept hardening. However, I didn’t pay much attention to it as I assumed it was just the way the baby was positioned within my womb, thinking that her back or head was pressing up against me. But later that night I started paying more attention and realized that the hardening and loosening of my stomach was becoming a consistent pattern. Apparently it takes a rocket scientist to figure out that the hardening and loosening of one’s uterus is generally called A CONTRACTION, YOU IDIOT, regardless of whether they are painful or not (they weren’t). Rob and I went to bed that night extremely hopeful and pretty sure that the contractions would continue to increase through the night and that we would surely be at the hospital by the time the sun came up the next morning.

I barely slept at all that night. I concentrated so hard on the contractions, wanting to feel them and know that they were still happening, but finally they ceased. There I was, the morning of my due date, without a baby in sight. So I did what any expectant mother would do on her due date, and thoroughly shaved my legs in anticipation of going into labor. I was positive that hairy legs would RUIN, JUST RUIN my entire labor experience, and I surely wasn’t going to let that happen.

After my 40 week OB appointment that morning, where they gave me a non-stress test, thought Avalon’s heart rate was dropping a little bit, and sent me over to the hospital for more testing, Courtney wrote an update here. Then, after I had to hang around the hospital to be monitored for a couple of hours only for them to say you’re fine, go home, I wrote an update here.

So there I was, on the evening of my due date, with no baby yet and mild contractions happening about every six to seven minutes. Since I was technically working from home already at that point, my dad came over to bring some work to me. While he and Rob sat with me in the office making light conversation, I desperately attempted to get the last-minute work done for Dad, but all the while my mind was spinning. The contractions were getting a little bit stronger, and trying to concentrate on numbers and clients and blahblahblah was nearly impossible.

Later on, I think not only in an effort to do something nice for us but to also keep me entertained for a little while, Rob’s mom invited us over for dinner. I’m afraid I have never been a more horrible dinner guest in my life, as I sat there slouched down in my chair like a neanderthal from the pain of the recurring contractions and only paying half attention to whatever conversation was going on around the table. Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly the life of the party.

When we returned home I was determined to progress my labor along, and in full disclosure I absolutely do not mean by having sex because I was definitely not in the mood to deal with those logistics. Instead I was going to walk, and I’d walk all night long if that’s what it took to get the baby out. So Rob and I set out on our trek, and as we walked he started timing my contractions. After a few had passed we determined they were a solid five minutes apart and at that point were painful enough that I had to start the whooo whooo whooo intense breathing to get through them. We ended up walking for an hour and half, circling our neighborhood over and over and over, looking like a couple of lost puppy dogs. Of course all of our neighbors knew what was going on and were aware that it was my due date, so whenever anyone would want to stop and talk to us all I saw was the word PITY written across their foreheads. However, I was in no mood for pity or conversation, I was on a mission, man, so we just kept walking.

When we finally returned home, I sat my sweaty, fat body down in the living room to try and cool off. Just then my mom called to check in and see if I had progressed at all. When I explained to her that I had contractions every five minutes, and that yes, they were getting stronger, and hang on a minute GAHHHHH, she suggested we get ready to go to the hospital. And although that was probably a really good idea, this is where those hospital people really piss me off: they discourage you from actually GOING to the hospital! Everyone hears different suggestions of when the right time is to go to the hospital during labor; some people say when contractions are five minutes apart, some say when they are three minutes apart, some say not until your water breaks. My hospital people said not to come until I couldn’t handle the pain anymore and wanted drugs. So although I had contractions five minutes apart, was I ready for drugs? Could I not handle the pain anymore? No, I wasn’t there yet. I could HANDLE the pain!

So instead I got in the bathtub to take another bath with my lavender, labor-inducing (WHATEVER, VOODOO AROMATHERAPY WEIRDOS) bath salts so that if I did go to the hospital I’d smell more like fresh flowers than skanky sweat, although looking back I realize that SKANKY SWEAT, YOU ARE INEVITABLE. Now mind you, I had no concept of time at this point, only that my contractions were every five minutes, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t stay in that bathtub for more than fifteen minutes. The contractions were coming on stronger and I was realizing that I did, in fact, need to get ready to go to the hospital. But I couldn’t go to the hospital with wet hair and no makeup, because like the hairy legs, that would RUIN, JUST RUIN my entire labor experience.

I spent the next twenty or so minutes in the bathroom drying my hair and applying makeup, while taking breaks every five minutes to whooo whooo whooo and pace around the bathroom. Meanwhile, Rob was in the bedroom (finally) packing his hospital bag. When I was finally done with my stupid beauty regimen, I went into the bedroom to consult with Rob and see if the contractions had gotten any closer together and decide whether or not it was time to leave for the hospital. At this point, all I could do was pace around the room in anticipation of another one of those damned contractions. Then when a contraction would finally hit, BAM!, I’d be whooo whooo whooo-ing and crouching over the dressing, gripping it with tight, white knuckles until it would pass. This is when Rob knew it was it was time to go to the hospital, for fear of me clutching the dresser too long and ending up birthing our baby right there in our bedroom.

I called my dad to let him know that we’d be on our way over to drop Oliver off at their house and loaded everything and ourselves up into the car. Prior to this point I had spent almost all of my labor standing upright, so to be restricted to a seated position made the contractions feel even worse. Rob took advantage of my situation and drove like a bat out of hell, blowing through as many red lights as possible and probably feeling like he was in a movie scene where the wife has a baby head peeping out of her crotch. Luckily, I did not. When we got to my parents’, I jumped out of the car just as fast as Oliver did so that I could resume my pacing before enduring another fifteen minute drive to the hospital. For only the few minutes that we stood in the driveway whenever I would feel a contraction coming on I’d excuse myself from the group, turn my back, and walk away so that I could sway back and forth while whooo whooo whooo-ing until it was over. I caught a few glances of their faces while this was going on, and again, PITY. Also, HORROR, probably due to the fact that they knew they could do nothing to help me or relieve my pain. Finally we said our goodbyes, assured them that we would call them when we got into the birthing suite, and set off to the hospital.

(Labor story, part 2 found here.)

I left, but not without a good cry.

Let me begin this post with a declaration: I have become highly aware that the natural weight loss that accompanies breastfeeding is a direct gift from God for new moms.

Granted, He has already given us one of the greatest gifts,  A CHILD, but the gift of The Disappearing Baby Weight ranks right up there as well. It’s the proverbial cherry on top of an already incredibly delectable peanut butter and chocolate ice cream sundae, which is pretty much exactly where all my extra pregnancy weight came from in the first place.

The irony. It’s just too much.

Anyway, thanks to this incredible natural phenomenon, I magically shed 20 pounds the week after giving birth and another five just a couple of days later, all while doing nothing but sitting in a chair with a baby suckling at my boob. That right there is a miracle if you ask me, right up there with the water-to-wine.

My point of all of this rambling is that my clothes, they don’t fit. I’m in the strange, uncharted land of Garment Pergatory, that in-between stage of not fitting in pregnancy garb anymore, yet not quite fitting into my pre-pregnancy clothes. So rather than wear nothing but sweats for weeks on end, I decided last weekend I needed to get myself a new in-betweeny wardrobe. Nothing fancy, nothing too expensive, just a couple of tops, some decent jeans, and, you know, something with an actual waistband and MY GOSH, WITHOUT STRETCH, I’M SO SICK OF ALL THE STRETCH.

So Rob, Avalon and I got ready to head out to the mall, first making a quick stop at Orange Tree to see my mom, sisters, and friend Jolee. While we were there we realized, duh, we forgot to bring the stroller. HI EVERYBODY, I’M A NEW MOM! Makes walking around the mall with an infant in a carrier a little difficult, albeit a possibly awesome workout for my biceps. Having left the stroller at home, Mom asked us if we’d like to leave Avalon with her while we went shopping.

A little weary at first because I hadn’t left my baby at all yet, I hmm’ed and haw’ed and then finally consented and got ready to leave. While I was saying goodbye and giving Jolee a hug, emotions took over, and guess what? WAHHHH, SOBBBB, CRYYYYYY. I’m hopeful that my mom didn’t take it personally or anything (Mom? Did you? I hope not.) and knew that it was just, yet again, those hormones going buck-wild in my system.

After the quickest shopping spree in my life, we returned back to Mom’s house an hour later to find Avalon fussing and looking for a boob, because, what’s new? Nonetheless, I was glad to get over that hump of leaving my baby for the first time, and I hope it gets a little easier every time. Because frankly, I’d rather not have mascara running down my face every time Rob and I decide to go out for a little date.

Kaley again…

Hi, it’s me, I’m back. Home from the hospital.

So, thanks to Court she explained what happened earlier this morning at my doctor’s office. After I went to the hospital they hooked me up for another non-stress test and monitored my contractions and the baby’s heartbeat for over an hour, then told me to walk the halls.

(Sidenote: walking the halls sucks, especially when one is by herself. Not only is it lonely, but something about the gown makes me feel so vulnerable and gross!)

When I returned from walking about 45 minutes later they hooked me up to the machine again.

The good news was that baby’s heartbeat was just fine, and the dips they thought they were seeing earlier was nothing to worry about. Also, I had contractions coming about every four minutes.

The bad news was that I was still only dilated to three centimeters, and I wasn’t really in any pain yet.

So, they sent me home. After lunch and  a walk with my mom, I’m now home again planning on walking the night away and getting these contractions going. The contractions are still very consistent, and are slowly getting a little more painful, but not too bad yet. PAIN, BRING ON THE PAIN. Never in my life have I wanted to be in pain as much as I do now. Labor is weird, man.

If anything more happens, I (or Court) will be in touch. Thanks for the kind thoughts and sentiments.

Because I’m not a Twitter-er…er

This is my sister, Courtney. Doesn’t she look like a superstar in this photo?

Anyway, for those of you that care or have asked me, she is going to be taking over my blog for awhile once this baby inside my womb decides to evacuate. She’ll be posting labor and delivery updates here while I’m busy pushing a baby out of my Southern hemisphere, and I have no doubt she’ll have you not only informed but also thoroughly entertained at my expense for at least a couple of posts.

In other news, NO. NOT YET. NOTHING. Appointment tomorrow morning.

The day before the day

Tomorrow is my due date. If my body continues to follow this pattern of ignoring the calender then I’m going to be one of those girls who, when asked when my due date is, replies TODAY, AND QUIT LOOKING AT ME OR I’LL CRY.

I’m sure everyone always thinks this, but seriously, I never thought I would make it all the way to my actual due date. I don’t know why I thought this, only that maybe I just wanted it to happen that way so bad, which was really stupid because I’ve essentially been giving myself pre-due date due dates. And it doesn’t really help when so-and-so is SURE that it’s going to happen on this day, and then when THAT DAY comes and goes I’m all depressed and pissed that I’m still pregnant.

Sidenote: so-and-so is often me.

This past weekend I tried a lot of the home induction tricks, and here’s how it went down: mexican food gave me nothing but diarrhea which made me pray that I didn’t actually go into labor because ewww; taking long walks with Oliver caused flames to shoot out between my legs from my thighs rubbing together like two dry sticks in the middle of the wilderness; the glass of red wine tasted awesome and relaxed my mind, but not my uterus enough to start contracting; and sex just never happened because, well, there are complicated logistics involved when one is so mammoth and immobile.

I’ve done some serious self-examination lately trying to distinguish if I feel any different or have any pain, any cramp, any weird twinge, and when I do it’s only because I have to poop which is basically really disappointing. I mean, you think your body is preparing to have a baby and then, oops, not the baby I had in mind.

I’m ready. I’m really, really ready to hold my baby. My kitchen has never been cleaner. My floors have never been more sparkly. My legs have never been shaved with such frequency.

I’m ready.

Nursery

The nursery is finally done. Yet another reason why HEY AVALON, WE’RE READY OUT HERE! Something really special about her room is the personalization going on in there. I’ve mentioned before how artistically talented my family is (and how it skipped right over me), so I decided I needed to represent! The cross hanging up above the chair was painted by my mom, and truth be told, wasn’t specifically created for the nursery. The fact of the matter is when I was working over at Orange Tree a couple of weeks ago I saw the cross hanging on the wall for sale when I decided it was perfect for the nursery. Then I swear the cross jumped off the wall and into the backseat of my car, drove home with me, then placed itself up on the wall in Avalon’s room. It was totally weird, man! Then that cute little table and chairs was painted by my grandma.

Isn’t this just so cute? She used the exact same paint colors that we used to paint the nursery walls, then added the additional artwork to match the canvas that is above the crib. Grandma did such a good job. Avalon is going to love it.

There’s the canvas above the crib. LOVE IT. SO MUCH.

Here’s a photo of the crib and crib bedding. I had a helluva time trying to find bedding that I liked that was bold and not too cutesy/babyish, so when I found this I knew it was perfect! My MIL and SIL bought it for me at one of my showers, and I just love it.

So there ya go, that’s the nursery. There’s only one thing missing, HINT HINT.

Belly, Week 39

So let me just start with OMG WHO IS THAT, SHE IS ABOUT TO EXPLODE?!?

Anyway.

I’m now five days away from my due date. At my doctor’s appointment today I was told that I’m two centimeters dialated and 80% effaced, and hearing those words made me so happy I peed my pants a little bit. Knowing for sure that there is some progress happening down in those parts makes it very real all of a sudden. I realize that it could be six hours or six days before I actually go into full-fledged labor, but HOPE, I HAVE HOPE. It’s coming soon.

While talking to my doctor I couldn’t restrain myself from asking if she has any tips or tricks for getting labor going. Her instant response was ’sex and Mexican food!’, and I’m not afraid to admit that I had Mexican for both lunch and dinner today, and I’ll just keep the rest of my plans to myself.

I spent the remainder of the day getting pampered – took advantage of a gift certificate from my MIL for a manicure and pedicure, then went and got my hair trimmed. I’m hoping that Avalon was just trying to be considerate and wait until my beauty regimen had been fulfilled before coming out into the world and that now that that’s all done and out of the way she knows that NOW IS A VERY, VERY GOOD TIME to get out, get out, get out!

Somewhat related: the nursery is finally finished! We were waiting on one last piece of the puzzle, the new glider we ordered, and we finally were able to pick it up tonight. Pictures tomorrow!

Dancing on the edge

My world is going to change in a matter of days.

At any moment I could go into labor and shortly thereafter be looking into my baby’s eyes.

The anticipation is unbelievable. Is this my last trip to Target pre-baby? Am I going to start feeling contractions tonight? Shouldn’t I take the time to blow-dry my hair just in case I end up going to the hospital later today?

This major life milestone is different than many; it’s unlike getting married or graduating college or starting a new career. It’s inevitable, yet unknown.

It’s going to happen, but when is the ultimate question. There is only one that knows.

I’m living my life in constant anticipation.

I’m on the cusp of entering my new life.

Belly, Week 38

Apparently Rob snapped this photo when I wasn’t really ready, although now I kind of like it because of the expression I have on my face while looking down at my belly. Something about it says, whoa, what the heck is goin on here? Exactly how many DQ blizzards have I eaten? Oh right! It’s not the ice cream, it’s a baby! A BABY THAT IS SUPPOSED TO MAKE HER WAY OUT OF MY CROTCH IN TWO WEEKS!

Of course now that I’m **this close** to being a mama, all I’ve been thinking about lately is labor. Not how much it’s going to hurt or how I’m going to deal with the pain, but other minute, ridiculous details that just won’t stop swirling around the inside of my head.

Like, what earrings do I want to wear? My hoops? My silver medallions? My diamond studs from Rob?

Or, since there’s a CD playing in the birthing suite, what kind of music do I want to listen to? Just yesterday while I was at work my iTunes was playing on shuffle and when “Canned Heat” by Jamiroquai, “Elevation” by U2, and “Freedom” by George Michael all came through the speakers I couldn’t help myself from breaking out some sweet dance moves. Which made me think, hmm, could these be good labor tunes? Would it be fun to turn my labor into a dance party? Has anyone ever done that before? SHALL I START A NEW MOVEMENT? I just don’t know. Moms, would U2 lighten up the mood in a birthing suite, or does it make you start writhing in pain again just thinking about it?

And by the way, I’m totally kidding about the music. Kind of.

At this week’s OB appointment my doctor checked me for any dialation and told me that Avalon must be quite comfortable because my cervix is completely closed, to which I responded, well I’m glad that one of us is comfortable! Ha! Ha! Because with each passing day I can literally feel that she is getting bigger and quickly outgrowing her living quarters. Sometimes my belly feels so stretched and rock hard that I’m afraid that BOING! a little foot with five wiggly toes is going to pop out the side of my abdomen and that we’d have to start a new freakshow career down at Key West’s Mallory Square. However, I’m finding peace knowing that she’s going to come out whenever she’s ready, whether that be tonight or three weeks from now. Besides, I have a mani/pedi to take advantage of before then anyway and, you know, priorities.

In other news, today was my last full day working at the office. From here on out I’ll be working from home, and only stopping in the office on an as-needed basis. Rob likes to joke about how I’m ‘retiring,’ then I go ahead and remind him that not only will I still be actually WORKING from home, I’m also taking on a new job, one that requires 24-hour a day attention and on-demand boobs but doesn’t even pay minimum wage. If that’s retirement, then there are millions of sixty-five year old men who have some explaining to do.

It’s a little bittersweet leaving the office, the place where I have spent the past two years, and next Monday when Dad helps me pack up all my stuff I am already imagining it to be similar to when I moved out of the house and went away to college, only I’m thirty pounds heavier and have finally given up the Sun-In. It’s been really fun working with Dad everyday, though, and I have to admit, I’m going to miss being there and seeing him day in and day out. Well, most days. That is, the days when he’s not out of the office and in Florida or Cedar Point or the Bahamas.

But the point is, I’m going to miss him.