Miracle of Life, edition VII

Workplace, Braxton-Hicks are my homeboys

Friday, Workplace threw Wee Lee a shower and Wee Lee should know just how humbled his/her mother was by it all.

I'm a bit anti-social at work. I've got my head down for most of the day, and lately I've been orbiting away from my desk more and more because of the requisite needs to visit the loo and the kitchen eighty three times an hour. But I don't have much time to chit-chat with my co-workers who are, honestly, very smart people who dress in very sharp cardigan sweaters and crisp shirts, unlike Preggo McBeggo who is just trying not to reveal that her turtlenecks have all become crop tops. So it was rather humbling that all of my co-workers came out and bought the wee one such wonderful, thoughtful, useful gifts, and kept it all hush-hush and even brought in their fruit punch bowls from home and made that wonderful punch with the rainbow sherbet on top? I love that stuff.

Then, shortly after I had recovered from hyperventilating over all of the gifts, I started to get some Braxton-Hicks contractions, signaling false labor, I know I know I know, but they were constant for about half an hour and I felt this heavy pressure in my lower abdomen that was altogether new.

I tried to block out the pressure while I was driving home, because I was driving home, but I did call Lovey Loverpants to pack a bag just in case. Braxton Hicks persisted into the late evening, because evidently old Braxton thinks he's my homeboy. Thinks we're tight. Tight like a contracted uterus muscle. But eventually, after talking to m'doula MaVic, we figured I wasn't really going into labor. Braxton Hicks was just overstaying his welcome.

In addition to a packed bag, I also asked Lovey to leave the house for half an hour so I could, ahem, take care of some things, i.e. addressing the fact that I had not shaved my legs since September, which made for an interesting deforestation project considering the watermelon I am now carrying. Yes, to quote Jennifer Grey in "Dirty Dancing"...

I carried a watermelon.

Nesting

Every preg book, course, and corny autogenerated e-mail I've received about pregnancy mentions the nesting phase. That phase when the expectant mother experiences a rise in energy and often goes on a rampage of cleaning, buying, and organizing, in preparation for baby. Even "Notes from the Underbelly" - the show that tries as hard to be funny as Lovey Loverpants and I try to stop watching it - addressed the phase of nesting whereby six months pregnant Lauren goes cuckoo in babyland, hoarding all kinds of layette and matchy matchy cribware. But really now. This is not some strange psychosis. Let's be a little less Victorian, shall we? Baby stuff is adorable and a simple gander through the H&M baby section compels me to hyperventilate and minutes later I find I'm being escorted out by security for drooling over all of the sweater vests in size 0-3 months. Baby stuff melts the hearts and shreds the wallets of the most staunchly anti-child among us. Also, the expectation of a baby is much like the expectation of a visit from the in-laws. Of course you're going to clean, of course you're going to exterminate the dust bunnies, of course you're going to want to organize your cabinets and inspect anything that may have expired three years ago, which somehow made the move from apartment to condo even though you don't even like that kind of boxed generic Mac and Cheese GOSH. But back to nesting, I just didn't think it sounded all that phenomenal, although I wondered when my reflex would kick in, and what kind of form it would take.

Picture Yours Truly Pregnant lying awake last night, my thoughts racing about short stories I needed to write before they got snowplowed up against the side of my brain by other preoccupations (see also: How I'm going to get back to France, How I can take over the Rachael Ray empire and eradicate the usage of YUM-O, How far of a drive is Tulsa, Oklahoma to the closest city). Lovey had been paged at the hospital, so I was left to obsess in the lonely cold bed or get up and try to fuel my obsessive thoughts into something else. At 12:30 p.m., I ate some leftover cinnamon rolls (man, those obsessive thoughts will build up an appetite). At 2 a.m. my bathroom cabinets were neat and tidy, with a new space allotment reserved for the wee one's various oils and lotions, etc. I then watched and cried at every episode of "I Propose" on OnDemand. By 3:30 a.m., Lovey came back home and into bed which made my nest felt a little more feathery and warm.

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In other news, I think we have some new window shoppers here at kendraspondence.com. Please introduce yourselves and give me the opportunity to welcome you!