Labour indeed.

Just about to leave for the hospital for the second time. First time was a bit of an adventure. We live literally like two blocks from the hospital and managed to get a flat tire on the way there, which Jamie valliantly changed in record time with no help from passersby - that's some cold shit! You're on your morning run and you see a pregnant woman bracing herself with contractions in the middle of the sidewalk and a guy trying to jack up a car on his own. What do you do? You give them the side eye and you keep on running is what you do, because fuck that pregnant lady and her husband! It's probably her fault the tire went. Fatty.

ANYWAY. We're on our way back, hopefully they'll let us stay this time. I may try to tweet while this whole thing is going on, or have Jamie do it. My handle is @nerdpro if anyone wants to follow; I may try to connect it to my FB statuses as well.

Come on Cletus, let's go; I'd like a nap.

Labour?????

So, dear readers, I do believe I'm in labour, or at the very least false labour. My baby may be Amy Winehouse reincarnate.

At around 1:30am last night, I had some abdominal pain and thought my water had broken. I called the midwife and it turns out she thinks it was just something else gross called "the bloody show." I'm going to call this Show Business! instead because that's a gross name. Anyway, this Show Business! went on for awhile and I'm still not entirely sure how the novice labourer is supposed to tell the difference between this and water breaking.

I had another spat of abdominal pain here and there for the next few hours, but around 4am they really started to come regularly; they were about every 5-7 minutes and about 30 seconds long. People keep asking if they were "strong,"... I don't know*, they were certainly painful. This lasted through about 9:30 or 10am, every five minutes, then I was able to sleep for 2 hours, mercifully, which meant they had stopped. So after waking up and eating something at noon, here I am, 1pm, waiting for it to kick off again. I've had what feel like few mild contractions in the past half hour or so, but nothing like the intensity of before.

I'm 38 weeks and 3 days, so fair game (it's 40±2 weeks, but I've been told usually + for a first; apparently not...). I tried to google the number for the triage midwife just now to check in, and this came up. Comforting. I'll definitely be wearing those baby catcher harem pants.

*Postpartum Update: They were not; not really, not yet. Though definitely uncomfortable.

The Homestretch

Today marks 35 weeks and 4 days along, just about to enter month 9. I daresay I'm a bit larger, though I think looking at the pictures from around 30 weeks, the difference is mostly in weight rather than size.

Either way, there's no arguing how totally massive I feel. From my perspective, this thing is gigantic.

And yes, those are my toenails, painted, and I painted them myself, which let me tell you, would have probably been comical to watch. The advantage is that the waddle I've been sporting since before I was even showing, due to the wonders of SPD, now at least looks like it makes a little bit of sense. No one is looking at me sideways when I take the elevator instead of one flight of stairs, and people can somehow read my urgent waddle as if it were a run (for example, the bus driver will wait if said urgent waddle is on display*). That being said, it is really hard not to run to do something like catch bus or even answer the door or phone. I have to consciously stop my body from automatically doing it, giving a nice schizophrenic character to the urgent waddle.

Acid reflux has reached a critical level. I am on my third 600ml bottle of Gaviscon (Americans, think liquid Mylanta), which I keep next to the bed and sip like a fine, milky, chalky wine in my sleep. I've also have had a few smaller bottles going for travel etc., meaning that by the time Cletus is actually out, I will probably have consumed over 2 litres of antacid. If you're a medical professional and this sends up a red flag for you, keep your red flag (I won't go as far as telling you where to put it) - unless you also have some magical midnight throat-fire cure coming out with it.  I'm told that 2-4 weeks before Cletus comes s/he will "drop" or "engage" lower in the pelvis and I will have sweet relief from reflux. I'm pretty psyched about this. 

Other than all this wonderful stuff, I've been concerning myself with cross stitching things and with Cletus' positioning. When I went in at 28 weeks, Cletus was in a breech position, which the midwife seemed very keen on telling me was not a problem, which of course made me convinced that it was a problem, so now I've been following it, or trying to. The best way to tell is by the hiccups, which for the past 4 weeks or so have been on the lower left, meaning that's where the head and chest are. Cletus gets the hiccups a lot, and luckily for you I've taken some footage of my grotesque belly during a bout of hiccups for your viewing pleasure. The music works and might even be a little cheesy ("Amazing Life" by Jem), but I promise I really only put it in so you didn't have to listen to Jamie and I discuss the finer points of Quincy's sleeping habits.

The ever-informative and hilariously illustrated What to Expect When You're Expecting, combined with hiccup location, has me thinking Cletus is probably currently in an Oblique position, maybe sort of hopefully verging on the Vertex position, which is more where s/he needs to be to get the hell out of my uterus.

"I can't find the door out of this shithole"

"Get your things, we're leaving."

Either way, I'm fairly sure s/he isn't Footling Breech, because I haven't noticed a foot hanging out of my vagina lately. 

"Just hangin' out."

In general, Cletus has been very active, kicking up a storm and generally moving his or her limbs about and poking in the organs/sides. Most noticeable, and reinforcing the oblique hypothesis, is what must be tiny feet rooting around in my right ribcage. This results in burning/pain sensation that I'm trying my best to find endearing.

Other than that, I've just been trying to wind down and relax a bit before the Artist Formerly Known as Cletus® is kicking me in the face and can make sounds I can actually hear. We had a fourth of July celebration yesterday, complete with some all-American beer pong (I just played with straight vodka; it's just how I roll). 

The weather was fantastically cooperative and we had a delicious cookout, complete with some pie (berry tarts by Keelin and key-lime by Manuela), hot dogs and burgers, coleslaw, and some delicious pork belly with a chilli and blueberry glaze, courtesy of Manuela and Juan.

I've also been trying to get the baby's room together and we've purchased a few last minute things. While we have tons of great hand me downs that I think will be enough for us not to have to make any purchases for awhile, we used some gift money at House of Fraser to get some cute stuff, just a couple pairs of trousers to ensure Cletus' dignity. Now, this may come as a shock to you, but my favourite purchase of all has been a pair of drop-crotch baby harem pants. We're going to be making a valiant attempt at reusable diapers, and I'm told their bulkier so I figured this was a good choice.

And yes, I also have my own harem pants, and let me tell you they are comfortable. They also take the waddle to a whole new level of public awkwardness. I might go as far as to say they are more comfortable than my old sweatpants. Since I've pretty much given up on wearing normal things like jeans, confining myself to the fine, dangerous line between leggings and pants, I figured I might as well throw a pair of well-ventilated harem pants in there. And honestly, it's a safety measure. If Cletus somehow ends up in a Footling Breech position without me noticing, I wouldn't want his/her feet exposed to the elements or met with harsh, rough denim. 

As for the rest of baby prep, the room is pretty much ready. We got a cotbed for a bargain £30 at an NCT sale, and an Ikea changing table/shelf system that might be mildly dangerous as it's not affixed to the wall - but it has some much needed storage.

Now all that's left to do is gear myself up for that whole labour thing, and for becoming part of the coveted "MUM" advertising demographic. I've been noticing lately how horribly things are marketed towards "mum's," the largest problem being the bizzarre assumption that it's some sort of homogenous group.  My favourite so far is the following claim, proudly stamped on a package of toilet paper:

So, apparently, as soon as I become a MOM (I don't think I'll ever be a mum; it's simply too British), I will also become a de-facto expert in ass wipery...or, my ass's opinion of a particular brand of paper is somehow more valuable, because, you know, I'm also wiping someone else's ass sometimes. With baby wipes of course, but that's not the point. I think this advertisement would be more effective if it targeted an even wider demographic. They're really just limiting themselves with the "mum" angle.

*This is probably just because it's mesmerisingly hilarious to watch