So I'm just under 36 weeks pregnant with a seemingly enormous baby. Like, this baby is measuring 3 weeks bigger than should be. Let's also toss into that terror salad that my husband is a solid 6'3", over 200lb brick shithouse with a head on him like a freaking basketball. We're talking a grown up Caillou. Finally, the bruiser I'm creating offspring with was born a whole month early and his fighting weight at that point was a mere 7lbs 14oz and he was 52cm long.
Sweet pumpkin spiced latte drinking fall hipster Jesus.
Not only should I have stayed on the pill, I probably should have put a padlock on my lady gear.
Nevertheless, here I am, a whole lot heavier, rounder, and sweatier. And lately, contractier, which is probably not a word. Yet.
Sunday morning was lovely weather wise. It was sunny and not too hot. Brad was going to walk the dog and I invited myself along, even though I dramatically slow things down, because my hips have been killing me and I thought it would loosen things up and make them feel better. We had a charming little walk around the harbor which ended with going up and then down a pretty sizable hill. I felt pretty good about myself as we were walking back to the car, mostly because I didn't die of sweating and exhaustion from the hill, but then it hit me. A freaking massive contraction, ripping right through me.
We're talking bad. Like, I had to stop walking, bend over, almost brought me to my knees kind of pain. It only lasted about ten seconds and I attributed it to being such an Olympian. We made our way back to the car and went on home where I sat down to take a breather.
Two hours later I was still feeling crampy. I was timing them to be 5-8 mins apart and lasting 20-40 seconds. I rested, drank water, peed, changed positions, did everything I knew to stop them, but they were relentless little buggers. When Brad's father stopped by I took the opportunity to pop to the hospital with Brad sans child.
I went in there, apologizing to the receptionist for probably being silly, then to the triage nurse (who I knew) for being silly, and then again to the nurse who came from the obstetrics unit to hook me up to the monitor. I was sure it was nothing.
However, when I was put on the monitor, there they were, every three minutes. Mild to moderate contractions, just like clockwork. Holy shit.
After the standard 20 minutes, the male doctor who I have worked with several times and know fairly well came in to tell me that because I was having true and regular contractions, the next step was an internal exam.
Just what I wanted. To go to third base with my co-worker IN FRONT OF my husband.
Thankfully, he was kind enough to give my OB/neighbor (the beauty of a small town) a quick call and she scooted her understanding little bum in on her day off to do the deed.
Now that the anxiety of the casualty officer seeing me naked in all my round, stretch marked, naked glory had passed, I had other concerns. I was lying there, post hill walk, sweating, unshowered, greasy haired, and hairy as all hell. Shaving my legs at this point is just too unbearable and I noticed that although my pits weren't man hairy, they were two days post shave and could have used some attention. I didn't even know what was going on in the nether regions. I hadn't seen those bits in weeks. I made a blind effort, but blind is the key word here.
I know what you're all thinking, "They don't care about that! They've seen worse! Bla bla bla!"
Listen, friends. I really didn't care when I went in on Avery. It was a huge hospital and I didn't know a soul in the delivery room. Two years later I have yet to see my nurse in passing, nor have I seen my doctor (thankfully because he got a little more than he bargained for with me). Living out here though is a whole different story.
Not only do I work extremely closely with these people, I live next to some of them and see them ALL THE TIME at the grocery store, the gas station, walking around the neighborhood, etc. I don't want to have people I see on a daily basis, at work or not, see me naked, sweaty, enormous, unshowered, and poorly groomed.
As I lay there stripped from the waist down, I said a silent prayer that a herd of tiny unicorns would gallop out of my vagina followed by fireworks shooting out of there in a manner one might see in Times Square on New Year's Eve. I imagined my co-workers whispering behind the desk, "Did you see her beav? It was amazing! The best one yet! I wish mine could be as awesome as hers!"
Maybe someone would even Instagram it, "#CirqueDuSoleilPinkTaco", who knows? That's not my decision to make.
Either way, there was no herd, nor were there fireworks, or pyrotechnics of any fashion. Just a regular old vag and an exam that showed that I wasn't even 1 cm dilated. I could go home.
So home I went, where my uterus continued to be a total a-hole for the next several hours. Avery fell asleep on Brad's chest at just after 7, and when she was settled away in bed I filled up the corner Jacuzzi and slapped a new blade onto my razor. It was business time.
Shaving any part of your body when you are in your last stages of pregnancy is nothing short of... interesting. Worthy of a special on TLC even. It's kind of like giving the Half Tonne Man a razor, putting him in a dark room and telling him to get to work. It's not easy and for all I know, my new nickname could be Patches O'Houlihan. Because I don't know any better, and couldn't reach even if I did, I'm going to assume that my body is as well groomed as that of an Olympic swimmer. As long as the Beach Boys don't start playing accompanied by spontaneous disco lighting when my undergarments are removed, I'm going to assume things are okay.
Contractions are all settled for now. Let's hope things stay that way for at least two more weeks. Lets also hope that the hair growth, sweating, and general grossness that comes with being a human scales it back a little as well. For the sake of all parties involved.