So Joel and I both thought it might have been going down last night. I had two solid hours of contractions, coming every 10 minutes toward the end. They varied in intensity though...some I had to relax and breathe through, while others seemed pretty quick and minor. I have an entire Word document dedicated to recording the time and intensity of each contraction.
It was exciting enough that I spent most of the time putting together a couple of brief clinical reports so that just in case this was it, my clients wouldn't be stuck without their information because upcoming court dates do not just hang out waiting for your therapist to come back from maternity leave. Joel was all excited too; I just know he was pushing through that fantasy baseball draft as an act of sacrifice while his wife was false-laboring away on the couch next to him.
And this after an afternoon at work that made me question my sanity in deciding to work almost right up until the due date. First, upon my arrival at the office yesterday, I had to retrieve an old client file from the office basement. And I am not talking about let's hop on the elevator or even let's carefully descend holding onto the railing. I am talking about a house built in 1870 for short people with apparently impeccable balance, because there is nary a railing to be found anywhere. Not even on the stairs going up to my second-floor office, which, yes, I also had to climb after making it up out of the basement. 219 West Main Street is my Everest.
At this point, I just factor in five minutes for deep breathing and a bathroom break every time I go up those suckers. I told our billing manager yesterday that if I had to go up and down one more time, it would be her taking me to the birth center. My clients are pretty understanding, and really, it's therapeutic to get into the habit of, you know, centering yourself as soon as you get to where you're going. It's not totally selfish that as soon as I fall (gracefully) into my office chair, I propose that we "take a moment to recover from coming up the stairs, shall we?".
I made it through a whopping four hours of work, and it really wasn't soooo bad. I could count on two hands and a few toes the number of times I stopped listening to my clients because I was noting the time and subtly deep breathing through an intense Braxton-Hicks. Which, I am pretty sure they are still Braxton-Hicks. They don't hurt, per se, but I can't always walk or talk through them.
In summation, yesterday it was as though moving more than two muscles simultaneously would result in a wave of contractions. Which apparently did not constitute "the real thing" because I am sitting here blogging about it instead of treasuring my first moments with our son.
Speaking of sitting here on my rear, Mikayla is a champ. I have never seen such a content one-year-old (not that I had hung out with very many until I became a mom). When I comment on what she's doing, she looks up at me as though realizing for the first time that "oh, you're still here?". I choose to interpret this as a sign of secure attachment and advanced emotional development, rather than proof of my neglectful tendencies over the past few months. I mean, when the garbage truck pulled up this morning, she still leapt into my arms for reassurance. Securely attached, thank you very much. I can provide references if you'd like to read further. You believe me, right?
Thanks for joining me, this has been my 38-week pity party. Tune in next time for more on the whiny, tantrum phase we seem to be entering...and maybe I'll write about Mikayla, too.
(p.s. don't be fooled, pregnancy is one of the most blessed experiences of my life. All the discomfort is more than worth the promise of a new little soul to nurture and love!)
SDG :)
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