Twenty-Seven Weeks : The big purple people eater

On Friday, I took the liberty of indulging in one of my few allotted outings and went to Target. Robert told me I needed to get out of the house and breathe fresh air and see people. I was reluctant to go, but ultimately happy to see outside the four walls of the house. I didn't walk around much in the store; looked for any preemie outfits (none) while Robert picked up a few miscellaneous items. We checked out and hit the Chick-Fil-A drive-through as our treat. I said something in the car about not feeling so hot, but brushed it off.

When we got home, I stepped out of the car and had the biggest contraction I've ever had, ever. It ranked a "holy shit" on a scale of 1 to 10. I stood like a statue by the edge of the car, waiting for the flood of relief. I had dinner in bed, and by then noticed I was having normal contractions. Five minutes. Eight minutes. Nineteen minutes.

There was no pattern, so I did what I knew to do: chugged water, laid down and shut up. Saturday was pretty much the same. After Evan had gone to bed, Robert asked how many contractions I'd had. He had no idea that I'd been having them so frequently, and once he knew, insisted I call the doctor.

Mama called the doctor and the doctor said, get your booty to a L&D bed.

That was fun. Although, whilst laying flat on my back, surrounded by medical professionals, my contractions spaced out to twenty-ish minutes apart. The babies heart rates were good, I wasn't dehydrated and all was well.

And Robert even got to witness a resident doing an internal, because nothing cures finding your wife sexually attractive quite like watching her be fisted by a nervous doctor.

I was sent home, told to follow-up with my doc and to call back if the contractions picked up again. We got home sometime around three in the morning.

***

Other than the contractions, I haven't hit the proverbial wall of exhaustion yet, which is pleasantly surprising. I generally take a nap each day, but I did that long before I ever got pregnant or married. Sleeping is a second religion to me.

One thing that cheers me up? Watching Evan and Robert play with sidewalk chalk.

In other fun news: pregnancy rage has set in. I would normally feel obligated to put "and not in a good way" at the end of the previous sentence, but really, there are no qualms about pregnancy rage. There are no exchanged pleasantries to be had at its expense.

Skirt/dress last seen here.

I've tried to keep a level head and be respectful of the slew of emotions that course through my veins, and ever-growing belly, but I've found myself on occasion muttering under my breath about doors left open or too-tight pants, or even the more rational: angrily snapping lids on Tupperware.

Notice how they're keeping their distance?

I'm in awe of my body and the miracles taking place inside. I still marvel at kicks and punches and rolls that distort my belly. But some days, I'd like to lie flat on my stomach and take a nap without sweating. I'd also like to not have to pee every time I change positions.

Ten weeks until my goal, and I know I've still got a lot of growing and changing to do between now and then. I know it's all worth it, even the unpleasantries. It's just hard to remember that when I'm feeling isolated or helpless or out of breath because I walked more than ten steps.

And in the spirit of finding the silver lining: as we left the hospital after 2:00am, Robert hinted that he was up for a snack, and in need of caffeine for the long drive home. Instead of the expected chain fast-food, I suggested an old haunt in our old neighborhood that caters to club-goers and other people needing a Mexican fix at all sorts of ungodly hours. We went through the drive through and got ourselves a snack to share. We rode home listening to good, old music and chatting away as though we'd been on a date. It was good, even at 2:00AM.