|For lack of any other resident, yes, the cat's in the cradle.|
The hippies tell me this is not the case. "No one stays pregnant forever" and blah blah hippie blah. Meanwhile, my pregnancy apps have taken a dark
|I refreshed the app. There is just nothing more.|
|After 40 weeks? Epic fail!|
I've actually gotten to the stage where, while I'm extremely ready to get things in motion, I'm forced to confront any abiding fears about labor. I've been pretty confident and relaxed about it up until now, mainly because I figure I have no control over the situation, it's going to hurt like a motherf*cker, and there will be 973450348 hippies in our house to help us figure it out, but the idea that the pain could start at any second is kind of alarming. I even fantasized briefly about giving it all up to go the hospital/epidural route.
Heather, thank god, has gotten to kind of an amazing point in supporting my mood swings, now approaching them like contractions. A recent episode of weeping over making the bed took on "Steel Magnolias" overtones: "That one was not bad at all!" and "It came on fast." Heather just strokes my hair while I cry, then we find something else to do. When I expressed concern over how long labor would last, she said the same thing: "Baby, we'll just take it one contraction at a time. You can't think of the whole span of it. We'll just get through each of them, and then you'll have the baby before you know it."
Meanwhile, I'm pretty sure this is just paranoia, but for the sake of documenting a pregnant lady's anxiety, I'll share anyway: my water might have broken. Amy has assigned me to put on a pad and see how things look in an hour.