Yowser. That word is not a normal part of my vocabulary.
But, then again, what I have been feeling tonight isn’t a normal part of my life experience. (Thank God. Really.)
I am experiencing my first bout with what, at the moment, I am assuming to be “practice” contractions.
Being just 37 weeks along and recognizing that they are coming at fairly irregular intervals, I’m sure (sort of) that these aren’t the “real” thing. However, since I would rank some of these on a pain scale of 1-10 at an 11, part of me is hoping these might just be a sign that Jacob is on his way.
I first started noticing the contractions a few days ago. They would come every now and again but not enough to make mention of. Today, around noon they decided to stick around.
It’s now 12 hours later.
And I’m dying.
Okay, not really. Let me try that again: I *wish* I was dying.
The last two hours have been particular torturous. The methods that have brought relief over the last few days are accomplishing nothing now. I have emptied my bladder at least a dozen times over the last couple of hours. Nada. Changing positions isn’t doing anything for me either. I’m convinced that if this is “fake” labor then those who make it through the real thing must be superhuman—or have no pain receptors anywhere in their body.
Although I haven’t been enjoying the bouts of sharp, knife-like feelings surging through my abdomen, I have to admit that they have done wonders for my baby-prepping lethargy.
Remember that to-do list I was supposed to catch up on a couple weeks back that included finishing packing my hospital bag?
Yeah, I didn’t either.
However, spurred on by the remote possibility that Jacob could at THIS very moment be working his way down my birth canal, I went into a packing frenzy. It was the most productive ten minutes of my life. My bag is now sitting perched by the door, awaiting the moment it will be swept away by Tom in a dazed and confused frenzy.
Now, half of me is hoping that the frenzy doesn’t happen tonight.
The other half—my lower half—is praying that it does.
(Note to readers: Once you see this, my night of misery will have happened six days prior. Stay tuned for whether or not my contractions turned out to be the real thing!)