It's Not Time Yet—Right? (With Apologies to Ms. Numeroff)
March 15, 2011
33w3d - There is something vaguely If You Give a Mouse a Cookie about wondering whether your labor has started way, way too prematurely.
If you think your Braxton Hicks contractions are the real deal, you will wince and huff each time you feel that piercing squeeze across The Area Formerly Known As Your Abdomen. And after one of your particularly windy heaves (and streams of vibrant swears), The Mister will worriedly, dotingly ask, "Bad, yeah? Can you imagine how much worse they get when they're actually happening?"
And when you do not slug him for being unknowingly crass while you're frantically wondering whether the main event is indeed ensuing, you will get up from the computer and attempt to re-occupy yourself so as to stop these please-let-them-be-practice contractions. If you go to the kitchen to redirect your focus, you will likely prepare a much more lavish dinner than the egg sandwiches you'd anticipated making again, and you might even use that expensive salsa that you felt guilty about buying (and then felt guilty for not actually using yet because you thought you'd save it for a special dinner, but you've not subjected anyone to your wonky preggo food proclivities for months, thus this jar has remained sealed).
And if you begin to prepare this involved meal—multiple proteins! Sautéed in garlic that doesn't come from a jar! With veggies you remembered (miracle of miracles) to pick up from the farm share this week, and doused in the Special Salsa!—you might just decide to get down with your bad self and some Kool and the Gang. And as you're chopping and bopping awkwardly, alone around the kitchen you will wonder whether the baby really can hear by now what's going on outside the womb and how s/he feels about funk.
And when you realize that the kid you're carrying very well may have actual musical tastes of his or her own one day—may actually complain about tunes in the car or request specific bands to listen to during dinner or actually, oh!, have a lovely singing voice (or, as likely, a woeful one, but who cares, anyway?)—well, you very well may grab the countertop to keep you from lifting off the earth in awe and gratitude.
Then the timer will chime and the food will be done, and you will begin to tell The Mister that you have not felt another contraction since that doozey over an hour ago. But as soon as you lift the lid to the veggies, you will nearly double over as the top of your uterus seems to fold, origami-like, in on itself for just a second. But while you stand there, again perplexed and ever worried, everything you know about Braxton Hicks will mercifully come flooding back: Drink water. Change positions. Pee.
So you will gulp some seltzer, relieve your poor, pinched bladder, then plate up your dinner and eat. And since you're eating something more indulgent than the soup and sammies that've become routine, you might as well linger with your dude a while and dissect the names you've come up with once again and laugh over highly unlikely but highly laughable playground nicknames.
And when you realize that you've been laughing and eating and slamming seltzer, contraction-free, for more than 45 minutes, you will sit back, comfortable but waterlogged, and accept that very likely your labor truly is weeks away.